The Monster in the Mirror
by The Fictionist
Summary: 1) The Cruciatus Harry used in the Department of Mysteries was successful. 2) Voldemort arrived just a little bit early. Two small shifts, that change absolutely everything – and understanding is a more dangerous weapon than even Dumbledore could ever have imagined.
1. Chapter 1

"Aaaah….did you l_ove_ him, little baby Potter?" Bellatrix mocked.

The hatred rose in Harry like a viper, not burning like his rage, but abruptly ice cold. He flung himself from behind the Fountain of the Magical Brethren and bellowed:

"_Crucio_!"

His scar was ablaze in his forehead, but it was Bellatrix who was screaming. Tossed across the Ministry Atrium, screaming and writhing on the floor, breathless. The blood was pounding in his head.

Sirius was gone. Sirius couldn't be gone. She'd been the one to kill him.

"That's right, Harry," came a high, cold voice that almost crooned in his ear. "That's a good boy. You have to mean it."

And he fell back to earth. The curse cut, and Harry was panting like he'd just sprinted a marathon. Sweat beading on his forehead. Pale fingers tightened like a steel trap around the wrist of his wand hand, where before they'd almost caressed.

His heart was going to burst out of his chest - transfixed by deadly, scarlet eyes that were watching him with a peculiar curiosity.

"Master….master…" Bellatrix whispered, struggling for her feet, shuddering.

"Be quiet, Bella," Voldemort said. "I shall deal with you in a moment. Do you imagine I have personally entered the Ministry of Magic to hear your snivelling apologies?"

Those pitiless eyes hadn't left Harry for a second. He should have done something - cast a spell, yelled out, jerked his hand free from that unforgiving grip. He was frozen, felt like his knees had turned to water.

"Where is the prophecy, Potter?"

Lying didn't even occur to him in that particular second.

"Gone." He swallowed, before he pulled a vicious grin to his face. Some vindictive satisfaction for thwarting the Dark Lord's efforts, when it felt like his entire world had just concaved in two. "I smashed it."

It was only when the pain sprung up again, that he was startlingly aware that it had been missing when Voldemort touched him first. His breath hissed out between his teeth, and that more than anything compelled him to try and put distance between them.

It didn't work.

"Gone," Voldemort repeated, far too softly for it to mean anything good. Harry's wand hand jerked on instinct in the grip, as the Dark Wizard's wand teased featherlight along his jaw.

Voldemort looked far more thoughtful than Harry had expected. He'd expected to be Crucio'd himself on the spot, if not outright killed for frustrating the man's plans again. Why hadn't he tried to kill him, now? Why was he just studying him like he was a particularly repulsive, but fascinating specimen to be trapped between two slides?

Harry could hear Bellatrix sobbing, could feel his insides aching with the force of his grief, everything jumbled and raw like he was an exposed nerve. He half wished Voldemort would do it, so he could see Sirius again. So he wouldn't have to feel like this.

The next second, the grip had jerked him around, splayed across Voldemort's chest and Harry found himself face to face with Dumbledore's wand across the Atrium. For a second, Harry nearly melted with relief.

Except, Dumbledore didn't look relieved. And he was currently, however unwillingly, blocking a decent shot between them.

Bellatrix watched proceedings hungrily, still trembling a little.

"It was foolish of you to come here tonight, Tom. Let go of him. The Aurors are already on their way-"

"By which point I will be gone, and you will be dead. Avada-"

"No!" Harry cried.

Dumbledore had already vanished and had appeared behind them, launching a new attack at Voldemort's back. Harry found himself tossed aside, the Fountain jumping into action to seize him. Hold him back.

He saw the flicker in Dumbledore's eyes that suggested he wasn't the one behind 'protecting him' from the battle - which made his gaze snap to Voldemort. His throat thickened.

Not actively killing him was one thing, what the hell was this?

None of this made sense! Voldemort had never touched him and it hadn't hurt before. Voldemort had never passed up an opportunity to try and murder him!

The battle raged between them - fire and water and Harry felt his hair stand on end at the power of it and - Voldemort had vanished.

But the statue of the Golden Wizard hadn't stopped shunting back Harry's every move to step forward. Fear prickled down Harry's spine, eyes scouring the room and then-

He would have expected pain. He would have expected to drop to the floor screaming.

He didn't expect to suddenly feel rushed through with a warm sense of completeness on top of the stinging agony in his scar.

He was gone from the hall; wrapped in the coils of a creature with red eyes, so tightly bound that he didn't know where his body ended and where the snake's began. Knew, instinctively, that this was Voldemort.

_Kill us now then, Dumbledore...or are you above such brutality?_

The force of Voldemort's hatred was all consuming. It mingled with Harry's, the lingering ice of his feelings towards Bellatrix. The bitterness in his mouth at losing yet another person, the second that he dared to care and get too close.

All those years with the Dursleys, all those years at the Orphanage...no.

He almost felt Voldemort freeze at the same time as he did. The pain flared again, instead of that lovely heat which Harry wanted to sink into, like it was the only happiness left on earth.

Blinding pain, and they fused together, bound together in it.

_What are you doing, Potter? Stop it! Stop it this instant, Lord Voldemort commands you…_

A group of young children throwing stones at a small snake. A small, dark haired boy looking down at its crushed and broken body - and that hatred again. Swelling like the snake in Harry's own chest.

A rabbit hanging from the rafters.

The darkness of the cupboard - he darkness of a room - a gnawing hunger and-

_Tom…_

It took him a moment to realize he was the one who had spoken through the serpent's aching jaw, not Voldemort. Like a hoarse breath, cracking around the emotion of it. The empathy that cracked into the hate and eroded it, broke it open like a dam for everything else to follow.

Then Harry was lying on the floor, shuddering.

The statue of the golden wizard was in pieces around him, and when he blinked his eyes he saw astonished, loathing red a few inches from his face. Blurred even in close proximity without his glasses. Pale and serpentine, dark magic crowding him, invading him by mere presence. Intoxicating and terrible, and absolutely breathtaking in power.

"It's him-it's the Dark Lord-"

The wash of voices around him, echoing more and more.

Then Voldemort was gone.

Someone - Dumbledore - had slid his repaired glasses onto his face.

"Are you alright, Harry?" there was something urgent to Dumbledore's voice. Harry nodded, propped himself up shakily on one elbow. His tongue felt stuck to the roof of his mouth, the memories still spinning uprooted in his head.

His own and…very much not his own.

"Y-yes. I'm fine. I'm-where's-who are all these - what's-"

The atrium was full of people. Bellatrix and Voldemort were both gone, and Fudge was staring in his direction, pale and sweating.

"You-Know-Who was right there, I saw him!" he was still blustering, to everyone around him. The whisper of the same thing went around the hall, from the Aurors to the group of Harry's friends disheveled and frightened-looking in the corner.

He saw Dumbledore look between him and them, as the flash of cameras began to go off.

"If you proceed downstairs into the Department of Mysteries, Cornelius," Dumbledore said. "You will find several escaped Death Eaters contained in the Death Chamber, bound by an Anti-Disapparation Jinx and awaiting your decision as to what to do with them."

"Dumbledore!" Fudge gasped. 'You - here - I - I - '

He looked wildly around at the Aurors he had brought with him and it could not have been clearer that he was in half a mind to cry, 'Seize him!'

"Cornelius, I am ready to fight your men - and win, again!' Dumbledore's voice was a storm. 'But a few minutes ago you saw proof, with your own eyes, that I have been telling you the truth for a year. Lord Voldemort has returned, you have been chasing the wrong man for twelve months, and it is time you listened to sense!"

"I - don't - well -" Fudge stumbled over himself, seeming panicked. In other circumstances, Harry may have been amused. "Very well - Dawlish! Williamson! Go down to the Department of Mysteries and see . . . Dumbledore, you - you will need to tell me exactly - the Fountain of Magical Brethren - what happened?" he added in a kind of whimper, staring around at the floor, where the remains of the statues of the witch, wizard and centaur now lay scattered.

"I will discuss everything with you once I have taken care of my student," Dumbledore said. The Headmaster rose to his feet, one hand supporting Harry's shoulder to drag him up too. "In the meanwhile, you will remove Dolores Umbridge from Hogwarts, tell your Aurors to stop searching for my Care of Magical Creature's teacher so he can return to work."

Harry stopped listening.

* * *

Dumbledore's office was a mess, and nothing the man had to say made him feel any better.

The news of the Prophecy, on top of everything else, was overwhelming. So was the knowledge of yet another thing that Dumbledore had kept from him.

Maybe, just maybe, if the Headmaster had told him earlier, Harry would have been better equipped. He wouldn't have ran so stupidly into Voldemort's trap - and it was an unnerving thing to realize that his most fearsome enemy understood him as well as his best friend did.

But Harry was beginning to get the impression that he and Voldemort might just have more ways of understanding each other than anybody would ever have wanted.

And now, when he needed Sirius more than he ever had before, the man was gone. Because of him. It was a kick in the face, and the mirror he found in his bag only made it that much worse.

He felt like he was being eaten up alive, by everything.

Wanted, more than anything, guiltily, that moment of blissful warm completion back. He didn't know how Voldemort had done it, but it was like peace in a touch. Peace was the last thing Harry would had ever linked with Voldemort, in any definition or sense of the word.

And, of course, there was that Cruciatus too. The revenge and the power that had bubbled so tempting in his veins as she screamed for what she'd done. Screamed for Sirius. It hadn't fixed anything, but, for a few seconds, it had made him feel better.

Now it just made him feel worse. Even more so because he wanted it again - wanted that control again, when it felt like everything else, even fate had been wrenched out of his hands.

The letter came in the early hours in the morning - sent by an entirely forgettable looking barn owl. Harry stared at it numbly. Made no effort to reach for the letter. Made no effort to do anything.

The room was full of the sound of the other Gryffindor boy's sleeping. Ron was still in the Hospital wing, recovering from the brain.

The owl jumped on the bed, dropped the letter in his lap, and pecked him hard.

The envelope just said 'Potter'. In an utterly elegant handwriting that Harry had...seen before. In Tom Riddle's diary.

That got his attention.

He wondered if it was cursed. Poisoned. Somehow booby-trapped.

Tested it for anything he could think of - which was probably not all that much, on the grand scheme of things.

Opened it anyway, because he could not bring himself to care about anything at that particular moment. Almost hoped it would finish him off. Finish all of this.

It didn't.

_If you say anything to anyone about earlier, I will eviscerate that mudblood friend of yours._

Then the parchment burned.

Of course, Harry did the worst thing he could think of.

He wrote back.

* * *

_A/N: So, I wanted to try my hand at a story that deals explicitly with Voldemort, over Tom Riddle if we're making distinctions between the two, And I have this bad habit of writing stories at Christmas. So...Merry Christmas! Feedback would, as always, be greatly appreciated._


	2. Chapter 2

The Orphanage loomed grey and forbidding in front of Harry.

He had no recollection how he got there, and the sky above him was darker than he had ever seen. Darker than ever seemed possible - a pitch shadow that smothered out sunlight or moonlight alike and left everything eerie and chilled.

It had been days since he sent Voldemort a letter, and the reaction had been immediate. Pain, blistering pain to leave him twisting in the sheets, clutching hold of his scar and panting for breath in the gloom.

Since then, however, nothing.

_I take it that I touched a nerve then, Tom? Did you eviscerate the boys at the Orphanage too?_

Harry ran his fingers over the door handle, before letting himself inside.

There was nobody there. Not on the first floor, or the second. Everything seemed discarded and abandoned halfway through.

He wasn't surprised when he found Voldemort in a room on the top floor, though maybe he should have been frightened. It felt difficult to feel frightened, strangely.

The Dark Lord had his back turned, pale head bowed over a small series of seven stones on the windowsill.

It didn't hurt anymore. No pain in his head, nothing like that. Harry felt calmer than he had since the Ministry. He was aware of the maelstrom in his chest, but it seemed something distant. Faded.

"What type of nightmare are you, Harry Potter?"

He blinked to realize that Voldemort was even aware of his presence, considering he'd done nothing to acknowledge it. Harry came to a stop standing next to him, a little warily.

"I'm not quite sure what you mean."

"It is not enough that you must haunt my waking hours, now you insist on doing so in my dreaming too?"

"...are we dreaming?" Harry supposed that made sense. He supposed that made it unfortunate that he had to wake up, however much he considered an eternity in Voldemort's head was not an appealing prospect.

But he seemed subdued in here. There was none of the crackling insanity around him; perhaps, that was the difference. The gaze that pierced him was terrifyingly lucid. And it had that thoughtful tinge to it too, which Harry was certain he was going to come to regret.

"You don't know?" was the response to that. Harry gave an awkward shrug.

"Dreaming and waking when it comes to you doesn't have much of a difference."

Still, dreaming - properly dreaming, and not simply having visions of Voldemort's past times - explained why the Dark Lord hadn't attacked him yet. But that was probably the only thing it explained.

He'd never fallen into Voldemort's dreams before. Actually, he'd imagined Voldemort didn't even dream at all, that he wasn't human enough for such a thing anymore.

They stared at each other.

"So," Harry persisted after a moment. "You're dreaming of...the Orphanage?"

Scarlet eyes flashed at him in warning, and Voldemort turned away from him again, fingers clenched like bone around the seventh stone.

Harry wondered, abruptly, if it was his fault. If he'd stirred up old memories, to bring the Dark Wizard back to the settings of his youth. He flopped down lazily on the bed to contemplate it, and could feel the irritation beginning to twitch in Voldemort's mind.

"I would have thought you would be more wary of the mind of Lord Voldemort, considering you have already proven your foolishness in believing everything you see." The man turned to face him. "Or perhaps you wish to cause somebody else to die? Any preferences on who you would like it to be this time?"

Harry lurched to his feet abruptly, fist clenched and body trembling with the force of it.

"Shut up."

"Oh, did I touch a nerve?" a mocking, lipless smile.

"_Shut up_. I'm warning you-"

"No, Harry Potter, consider this your warning." Once again, the sense of peace shattered to leave only the wake of agony behind it. Harry's head exploded, his knees nearly buckling, as Voldemort advanced on him. Gliding, predatory, more like a Dementor than a man. "Stay out of my head. You are not welcome here."

"Believe me," Harry hissed, eyes narrowed. "I'm not doing this on purpose."

"Well, it's not Lord Voldemort's fault."

"It's your dream!"

A hand closed around his throat, in absence of a wand and - there was that warmth again. Without warning. Harry nearly melted into it - Voldemort recoiled back several steps, letting go of him like he was grotesque to touch.

The only sound was their breathing.

"What are you?" colder and more clipped than ever. "How are you doing that?"

How was this happening? Why was he in Voldemort's dream now, when he never had been before? Had the possession triggered something? Left something behind? They'd been so close, minds wrapped around each other's more than they ever had been before...and the connection had always been there.

It seemed to grow stronger every year.

...did Voldemort think he was the one causing the warmth? Was he? Harry had no idea.

But it seemed they were both as lost on what was happening as each other, which was at least a little reassuring. In a strange sort of way.

But Harry did know that he'd had enough of feeling helpless...so he smirked.

"Wouldn't you like to know? Maybe I'm fated…" he let the implication hang. Voldemort's eyes narrowed at the mere reminder of the Prophecy. Harry felt a flicker of fear in the air, and it was absolutely intoxicating.

The sky outside the window darkened to impossible levels, with the brooding storm of the Dark Lord's mind. He could hear a wailing noise, getting louder and louder, like an air-raid siren. A warning of the turbulence in Voldemort's head.

The Orphanage began to crumble to dust around them, like the veil of the dream was slowly shredding and burning around the edges. Harry's eyes widened; the apathy vanished. In its place, in the place of the gaping darkness that Sirius had left behind when it was better not to feel anything at all, was a rush of blood curdling terror.

He scrambled back away from Voldemort, but those bloody eyes still seared through him as his vision tilted and his head began to pound.

Everything now was a wasteland, scorched and ravaged with the earth falling away beneath his hands and his feet and - it was only a dream! It was only a dream! But Harry was instinctively fighting for ground, heart pounding nauseating and electric.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, calm down!"

He lunged for Voldemort, not having much choice in the matter when everything else was being scorched away by the force of the man's mind. A visceral, self-eating insanity. Clutched hold and braced himself for pain, eyes squeezed shut, and…

The pain was there. But the longer he held on, the longer it was replaced by that sense of wholeness. He didn't understand it - but he was suddenly rather worried that fuzzy feelings were his prophecied power after all.

Sure, next time he met Voldemort outside of the bastard's head, he'd just hug him to death!

He slowly looked up, after a while.

Voldemort was staring at him again, absolutely no expression on his face at all. Harry would have checked if the ground had gone back to normal, but he couldn't quite bring himself to look away. Even if this was only a dream.

The Dark Wizard was only somewhat less terrifying mentally than he was in his physical presence.

Magic coiled around him, insidious in its darkness, seductive and ensnaring…

"You know the Prophecy then?"

Harry's mouth ran dry.  
"...er, no. It smashed, remember?"

"Such _lies_, Harry." A soft croon, and Harry stumbled back a second too late at the alarm bells going off in his own mind now. "You should know better than to lie to Lord Voldemort."

Wake up. Wake up. Wake up _please_.

He was left with his sheets soaked through with sweat, and a stinging pain in his forehead.

* * *

The situation with Harry Potter was an unnerving matter, growing more and more troubling by the day.

Since the Possession at the Ministry of Magic, their minds were connecting with an increasing regularity - though they had yet to sleep again at the same time. Lord Voldemort did not require a lot of sleep.

The strangest thing was the peace. The snatches of completeness, that warned him immediately of some greater and more terrifying scheme.

How could the boy who had caused him nothing but trouble be capable of, with a touch, make him feel more content and whole than he ever had in his whole life? Safe.

It was absolutely disgusting, and only reinforced the truth of the fact - that Harry Potter was an entity that both deserved and needed to be utterly destroyed. So he could never seep such poisonous dissatisfactions into him again, never make him question. Never give him that moment of lucidity, that for the first time might highlight a problem otherwise.

Of course, he flung himself into a feverish, rabid frenzy of research. Books on mental connections of every sort, trying to establish the reason for the brat's infernal power over him. On how Potter, brain soft and mushy with emotion, utterly without skill, could turn his own possession back on him as easy as breathing…

The inevitable conclusion was worse than any he could have imagined.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore couldn't help but be concerned.

A teenage boy furious and reeling from grief was a dangerous thing, and Harry Potter apathetic with the sheer intensity of his mourning was a far more lethal thing than most.

It made him...reckless and, after the events of the Ministry, caution was what they needed the most.

Something had happened there, something that had thrown Voldemort off, and the fear of thinking what Tom might have realized was overwhelming. It could ruin everything, if there was even in a chance that it was what he had been thinking for a while now.

"Is there anything you wish to tell me, m'boy?"

Harry remained blank faced where he had been summoned, listless and even aggressive in how much he 'didn't care' about what anything had to say to him. A shadow in Harry's gaze, that caught his breath in his throat.

"No, sir. Nothing."

* * *

The actual physical response didn't arrive until he was back in Privet Drive.

He wondered if he should be concerned that Voldemort could said anything through the Blood Wards, but considering his scar hadn't stopped prickling since that dream, and the Dark Lord hadn't arrived to murder him, he was probably okay.

The Order members outside - as if he hadn't seen them! - didn't seem particularly worried either.

Harry was exhausted. He'd largely avoided sleeping since, out of the insistent nightmares of Sirius falling through the veil and the threat of ending up in Voldemort's head again.

The days stretched endless, frustrated and burning up with the need to do something, anything. He unfolded the paper in his fingers, something tight in his throat.

_It seems the connection between us grows ever stronger, Harry Potter. Rest._

* * *

_A/N: Bear with me, I guess? _


	3. Chapter 3

Of course, now Harry never wanted to sleep again.

Anything that Voldemort wanted him to do seemed highly suspicious, and probably not as good for his health as the seemingly harmless word of 'rest' suggested.

He did everything he could to stay awake, between squats and jumps, reading - _anything. _Seriously considered talking to the Order and saying that he shouldn't fall asleep for the good of the war effort...but he didn't want to talk to the Order.

Didn't want to see the pity in their gazes, or hear their condolences about Sirius. Didn't want to listen to them trying to cheer him up, or to tell him stories about all the good times and the pranks. It just reminded him that they were gone.

Besides, no one in the Order had seen fit to tell him anything last summer, so why the hell should he mention it now? No one had thought to tell him before about the Prophecy. Sirius had been the only one to tell him anything!

He wished he could write his Godfather for advice about all of this now. The world was not split into good people and Death Eaters, but it still seemed a crime of complicity to be in Voldemort's head.

Besides, no one had much bothered to tell him anything now either. Not anything of use, not anything that would help. Not even a bloody spell book! Not even from Ron and Hermione.

Jokes about fuzzy feelings aside, why hadn't Dumbledore tried to teach him anything? The power of love was great and all he was sure, but the ability to shoot fireballs out of his wand seemed pretty useful too.

He managed to go quite a long time without sleeping - but it inevitably caught up with him. Eyes stinging with exhaustion, barely able to see straight let alone walk straight.

When he was next conscious of being awake, and so not really being awake at all, he was in...where was he? Harry sat up, heart hammering in his chest.

Could recognize easier, now, that he was dreaming. Or at least he assumed so. He'd never been in so lovely a room in his life.

Sunshine streamed in through large French windows, that opened out to a garden. Harry wandered over to it despite himself, still dressed in the clothes he had fallen asleep in. Feet bare to feel the glide of polished wood beneath his feet, and the softness of a rug.

It was so different to the neat rows of Privet Drive, to the sheer Dursleyishness of Dudley's second bedroom, that reminded him of everything that had come before. The birthdays and holidays gone unmarked in comparison to Dudley's discarded treasures, the cupboard that had once made up his world.

This place was open, light.

"I see you like the room."

Harry's shoulders stiffened. He folded his arms, turning around instantly to face Voldemort. For someone who had been kept waiting for three days, he seemed surprisingly patient. Unnervingly so.

Harry swallowed, fists clenching at his sides again.

"Does it matter? Where are we?"

"Your room," the Dark Lord replied. "All of this is yours, if you would like."

That was the last thing Harry had expected, and his eyes narrowed slightly. Brain spinning with complete confusion.

"But you look tired, Harry," Voldemort continued, taking a step towards him. "Perhaps a drink, or a sit-down?"

"I'm in your head."

"I thought it would reassure you to have a prop. More pleasant. Less confusing for one seemingly unused to dreamscapes and mental navigations."

"And why," Harry gritted his teeth, "would you ever be interested in making things _pleasant _for me? You hate me. You've been trying to kill me for years!"

Voldemort's expression remained alarmingly blank, unreadable.

"Circumstances can change. Consider this Lord Voldemort's attempt to be...generous." Harry backed up as the Dark Wizard moved towards him across the room, half expecting the illusion of this beautiful room to shatter to something terrible again.

"You're not known for being generous towards me either," Harry snapped. "Stay back."

...Voldemort completely ignored him, continuing a relentless approach until Harry's back was pressed against the large glass doors. Which, just for reference, were locked. Typical that Voldemort had locks in his head.

Harry nearly squeezed his eyes shut, like a child hoping the nightmare would be over when he opened them. Breath quick in his throat, as much as he was loathe to show any fear towards the bastard.

Who could help falling asleep, when they weren't even allowed to use magic? And the letter had burned, so he couldn't even prove any legitimate threat. He nearly jumped out of his skin when pale, spidery fingers stroked through his hair, brushing it back from his forehead and the eternally damned scar.

Worst of all, he could feel that bewildering warmth again. Spreading, when he concentrated on it, from the point of contact to all the nerve endings in his body. His mouth had gone completely dry.

The ache in his chest faded once more, and all the hurts and troubles of waking receded to the back of his head. Not gone, but soothed from their rawness. Now, Harry was forcing his eyes not to flutter closed.

"Lord Voldemort's generosity is this, Harry Potter…" such a soft voice, for such a dangerous monster. "Come to me, and I will spare you. You will live here, and you will want for nothing. No one will need to die protecting you, no more shields for the Boy Who Lived," Voldemort murmured. "But, if you refuse…" their gazes locked, and Harry could barely hear a thing except the ringing of his ears. Feel the press of fingers against his jaw. "Every being that tries to keep you from me will die. I will cut down everyone you love without mercy or hesitation, and your room will be a cage you barely have room to stand in."

Harry stared at him, bile clawing its way up his throat. So at odds with the pleasantness of the touch, that smoothed so tenderly along his scalp and his skin. He knew, this time, that Voldemort was using it deliberately.

Making it difficult to think, when all Harry wanted to do was never stop feeling this complete. The rage burned hot in his belly.

"You seriously think I will just surrender myself to you?" he replied.

Voldemort was lying, obviously, he had to be. Not about his threat, but at the fact that it would be any different if Harry quietly turned himself over to the Dark Lord's hands. Lord Voldemort had no generosity, and no mercy, and if he did Harry very much doubted it would be for him.

He didn't know what was going on, but he figured anything Voldemort said or wanted from him was suspect. Even if Harry's eyes currently wanted to roll back in his head with that peculiar bliss and there was nowhere for him to go to escape the onslaught of peacefulness.

"I would advise you think about this carefully," Voldemort said. "Lord Voldemort does not offer second chances."

"Why are you doing this?" Harry asked instead, chin jutting up. "You want me dead, why would you offer to spare me? What the hell do you mean 'circumstances have changed?'"

Mere possession, or failed possession, couldn't do that, surely? There had to be more going on here. If anything, Voldemort's immediate response suggested his ability to see inside the Dark Lord's head was further cause for his murder, not something to prevent it. Voldemort didn't _want _him in his dreams…

The warmth? Voldemort didn't seem to much want that either.

"If you continue to defy me, I will perform the worst torments imaginable in your name," a hint of impatience in Voldemort's tone now. The caressing grip tightened, and Harry could feel the first splinters of pain in his head again.

"And there was me thinking Lord Voldemort was too proud to do anything in anyone's name but his own," Harry snapped, before he could entirely help himself.

"And perhaps you are not as much of a hero as you would like everyone to believe, if you would see your loved ones suffer because of your foolishness," the Dark Lord said. He spat even the word 'loved' out like it was a curse upon the world. "But then...you did take to the Dark Arts of my dominion rather well. We are much alike, my treasure. Lord Voldemort can see that now."

That was the last thing Harry wanted to hear. He didn't want there to be any similarity between them, though since second year with Tom Riddle's words, they'd been increasingly evident.

Choices...it was choices that defined them. Torturing Bellatrix was not the same! She deserved it! She killed Sirius!

"Your _treasure_?" Harry almost wanted to laugh, for the first time since Sirius fell. Laugh in some terrible, hysterical way. Maybe insanity really was contagious. "I'm not your treasure, I never asked to be a hero, and you would kill everyone I cared about even if I did come to you."

He shoved Voldemort back, hard - and the lovely room was wobbling around them again. An unstable dream, though he had no idea which one of them was shifting it now.

But the space, the open space that Harry so yearned for, was closing in and darkening – glass turning to dusty and cobwebbed walls.

"I came at your command at the Ministry," Harry hissed, stepping closer without thinking. "And people ended up dead."

Either way he did it, no matter how hard he tried, or cared, it felt like he couldn't win. The more he tried, the more it _hurt. _He just wanted it to stop hurting.

Voldemort's head tilted, reptilian in his consideration. Harry's face was flushed, a direct contrast to that white face like stone, cold and implacable. Harry hated it. Could feel the blood rushing through him, boiling, always just beneath the surface.

He wanted to shatter that look of condescending disdain, to stop the threats and have the power not to be affected by them. To know he could protect the people he wanted to. To watch Voldemort bleed and be the one hurt instead, to watch that composure be torn apart just like the man's dreams were.

The spell whispered at the corners of his mind - _Crucio. _To externalize the pain in his guts to something outside of it, to shove it on the wizard who really deserved it. Whose fault it was.

Those eyes burned him, far too knowing of such dark desires.

"**I always get what is mine, Harry Potter. I suggest you plead mercy whilst you still can – you have two weeks.**"

This time, Voldemort was the one that vanished…and the beautiful illusion crumpled away with him. Harry was left in a cold, sluggish darkness, struggling for the surface.

* * *

"Harry! Potter – for god's sake!"

Harry gasped awake, blinking blearily, glasses smushed on his face still. Moody was grizzled above him, fingers on his arm like a steel trap, shaking him.

Harry scrambled back immediately. His shirt was once more soaked through with sweat and…blood. He wiped it off his face, sticky. Forehead throbbing with pain, the scar still weeping.

He expected to hit his headboard, but…he was outside. When the hell did he get outside?

The grass was wet with dew beneath his fingers.

"What happened?"

"We intended to ask that of you," Moody growled. The electric blue eye seemed to pick at his soul.

"You were…sleepwalking," Tonks said. Though her tone of voice suggested far more than that, but then, so probably did the blood on his face. "Hissing. Like a snake."

Hissing. Harry's insides twisting.

He couldn't decide if the pity in their eyes had been worse, or this. Harry swallowed, mind racing.

"Well?" Moody demanded. "What's going on, boy?"

_I'm having dreams of Lord Voldemort. _

_I was just having a chat with our friendly neighbourhood Dark Lord._

_He wants me to go to him. He says that I'm his. I don't think he plans to kill me anymore._

"I think Voldemort's planning on attacking the Blood Wards."

And every inch of Harry was suddenly straining to leave them.

* * *

_A/N: Happy New Year's! :) x Hope you all have a great one. Bold is parseltongue, for reference. Thank you for your continued interest in the story!_


	4. Chapter 4

Dumbledore arrived at Privet Drive the next morning.

In his fifth year, that may have been something Harry wanted more than anything. The acknowledgement, the involvement and the sense of things happening. The opportunity, no doubt, to leave the Dursleys as - in light of Voldemort's potential attack - the Order were implementing an emergency evacuation.

He'd been packed for hours already, and now sat restless, waiting. Trying to phrase his demands for answers in the most convincing way possible in his head.

Was still up like a shot when he saw Dumbledore, tall and billowing in his cloak, walking up the neat garden path. It seemed all too surreal. Harry sprinted down the stairs, to the dubious looks his relatives were giving him.

"Ah good evening, Harry," the Headmaster greeted pleasantly upon spotting him, having already disarmingly made his way into the building despite Uncle Vernon's blustering about this whole 'nonsense of a situation' and 'this is my home, sir'."Don't worry, we will be departing soon. There are simply some matters that need to be discussed first."

Uncle Vernon's protests on the matter were once more dismissed, but Harry's attention was more concerned on the glimpse he'd got of Dumbledore's hand. Black, shriveled..

"Sir-" he began.

"Later, Harry," Dumbledore said. "Please sit down."

Harry's hands flexed impatiently at his sides, not really wanting to linger or do anything of the sort.

"I thought I was moving to a safe house? Can't I just stay at Headquarters?"

"That is one of many things we need to discuss," the man said. Just waiting for him, staring him down with expectant blue eyes until Harry reluctantly lowered himself onto the armchair. The Headmaster waved a wand, conjuring two mugs of honey mead for them to sip on with a smile.

Harry clutched hold of his, still studying Dumbledore. At least they agreed that they had a lot to talk about.

"Voldemort knows something," he said, before the headmaster could speak. "So do you. What more is there that you aren't telling me?" He'd thought, with the prophecy, that all the life-changing revelations were out of the way, but...if the prophecy sparked Voldemort to want to kill him, what was making him do the opposite now?

Dumbledore remained silent for a moment, the twinkle leaving his eye.

"It is only a theory, one that I have yet to fully conclude," the headmaster said eventually.

"What's the theory?" Harry asked. He could see Dumbledore hesitating again, or at the very least weighing up his words and actions oh so carefully. Harry felt a flash of rage shoot up his spine, palms tingling. "Tell me. I need to know or - or I'll do something stupid again. Like going after the Prophecy. People will die. I need to know."

Dumbledore gave a rather tired sigh, settling his own glass of mead barely sipped against a robed knee.

"In this world, there exists many different forms of magic. Some light, some dark. Some good, some terrible. The most powerful of magics inevitably leave behind...traces." Those blue eyes almost seemed to stare straight through him. "A mother's protection, for example, left a trace upon your skin that once meant Voldemort could not touch you. It responds to him still, which is why I believe you may be in pain when he touches you."

Harry's brow furrowed. Why would something made to protect him, hurt him? Shouldn't it have only hurt Voldemort in that case? Shouldn't it - well. Was that what caused that feeling of warmth? Love? But why would Voldemort feel it? None of that made any sense!

"I'm not sure I understand, Professor," he said tightly.

"You have been in conversation with Voldemort, haven't you, Harry?" Dumbledore questioned, leaning forwards now. "What did he say to you?"

Harry's jaw clenched, fingers flexing around his glass.

"I thought you didn't want me in Voldemort's head. That's why you made me take Occlumency lessons."

"It is dangerous for you to be exposed to Voldemort's mind, yes," Dumbledore agreed. "I dare say the events of the last term proved that." Harry flinched, even if Dumbledore's tone remained soft, kind. "But you have entered his head. He possessed you at the Ministry, too. Something happened."

If Dumbledore knew that, why hadn't he pressed the matter earlier?

The Headmaster seemed to catch something in his expression. "I hoped you would come to talk to me about it yourself, m'boy. That you would trust me to help you."

"I didn't realize you had any desire to talk to me, Professor." It slipped out before he could entirely help it, as unwelcome as vomit. The accusations of the year before, of how the man had ignored him then, when he needed help most. "Considering it's a danger that I am exposed to Voldemort's mind."

Dumbledore remained infuriatingly calm. Waiting again, expectant. Harry wanted to throw something again, wanted to - no. He shouldn't think about that. It reminded him far too much of that look of dark knowing in Voldemort's eyes.

"Voldemort...he told me to come to him," Harry relented. "Or he would come for me. I'm not sure he wants to kill me anymore." He was watching close enough to see something spark in Dumbledore's eyes, just for a second. Nearly pounced on his feet. "You know why!"

"As I said, I only have an old man's theories-" the Headmaster began.

"To do with magic leaving traces." Was Harry supposed to understand by now? He felt like an idiot. Was that warm feeling really his mother's love?

"I once told you that you can speak Parseltongue because there is a possibility that Voldemort gave you some of his powers when he tried to kill you, all those years ago," Dumbledore said. Harry felt a prickle of dread down his spine.

Not his mother's traces then.

"He...left something in me? In trying to kill me?" The killing curse was powerful dark magic, wasn't it? "What?"

Dumbledore took another sip of his mead, as Harry's heart hammered.

"A part of his soul."

Someone dropped a glacier in his stomach.

* * *

"What do we do?" Harry's voice cracked. "He's - he's immortal!"

A conversation about Horcruxes did not seem right for the pastel tediosity and floral patterns of Number 4 Privet Drive, haven of all things mundane and non-magical.

"We will explore this further, I promise you, Harry." Dumbledore looked more serious than Harry had ever seen him. "But you must understand now, why you absolutely cannot go to him. No matter the cost. If you do...between the prophecy and this, I fear we would leave the fate of this world to dust."

"He's going to kill people." Harry's ears were ringing. "Because of me."

"And what type of world would they be living in, if you went to him and he won?"

Hermione and others like her probably were better off dead than living in a world under Voldemort's reign, but Harry still felt like something had rotted in his stomach.

Was that why he felt a sense of warm completeness? It wasn't him - it was - the soul piece. The Horcrux. Craving for wholeness, joyful for contact. He swallowed, thickly. Remained rather glad that he hadn't told Dumbledore about that bit. Even now, it seemed too intimate a thing, embarrassing. How ridiculous to feel like that at the mere touch of his worst nightmare.

.

"Am I...I'm not the only one of them, am I?" It would almost be easier if he was. He remembered his second year with a vivid nausea. "You mentioned the Diary...a different type of magic than what you'd seen before. There could be thousands! They could be anything!"

"I'm glad you appreciate the enormity of the task ahead of us." Dumbledore smiled gently. "But I doubt even Lord Voldemort could split his soul that many times. It would cause...too much instability."

That insanity like a flesh-eating virus. Harry shuddered.

"Can they be destroyed, the horcruxes?" It was only once he asked the question, that the enormity of it sank in. He was a Horcrux. He was keeping Voldemort immortal.

And either must die at the hands of the other, for neither can live whilst the other survives...

Harry squared his shoulders, head spinning. Bile caught in his throat.

"It will be difficult," Dumbledore said. "But it can be done."

"…I won't let you down, sir."

* * *

The Burrow seemed different in the light of his knowledge. Its ramshackle cheery homeliness seemed somehow diminished, perhaps partially in the possibility of it all shattering. What if Voldemort attacked them? It was the obvious place to look. 

And, with Sirius' will and the summoning of Kreacher, they had managed to establish that Grimmauld Place was still useable as the Order's Headquarters. So why on earth was he at the Burrow? Dumbledore had just dropped him here, despite all of his protests on the matter. Said that he would be in touch throughout the summer. 

Harry was trying to remember how to breathe.

Dumbledore had said it was okay to talk to Ron and Hermione about what they'd discussed, that he should keep them close because he would need his friends before the end, but…

Harry traipsed into the Weasley home in a gloomy silence.

"Harry!" Mrs Weasley ushered him into a hug, warm and smelling of flour, before she held him at arms length to examine him properly. "Oh, you're just like Ron. Both of you look like you've had stretching jinxes put on you. Are you hungry? Have they been feeding you enough?"

Harry shook his head, unable to stomach the thought of food right now. He could feel Mrs Weasley studying him.

"I'll just make something simple. Some nice bread and butter...you should eat something, dear."  
There it was. The pity in her eyes.

Harry watched the loaf of bread slice itself onto his plate. Looked anywhere but her - pausing on the clock. All hands pointed at mortal peril. What little appetite he could have possibly have, plummeted.

"I'm sorry about this," he muttered.

"Excuse me?" Mrs Weasley looked confused.

"I told Dumbledore I was fine to stay at Headquarters. It's not - Voldemort-" Harry grimaced as Mrs Weasley winced at the name. Still, she seemed to gather where he'd been about to go, and shook her head.

"Nonsense. We're happy to have you, Harry. Dumbledore and the Order have all put their best protections on the house, you'll be perfectly safe here."

But it wasn't himself that he was worried for.

What of Mr Weasley, at work or on his commute? What of Fred and George, who Ron said in his last letter were successfully running a shop in Diagon Alley? What of any of them? If Dumbledore was right, and Voldemort had truly realized what he was, then there was going to be absolutely nothing that could deter the Dark Wizard.

Nothing except Harry going to him - and Dumbledore had warned him against that ten different times already. He knew the man was right, but that didn't make it seem any less like his intestines were being wrung out like dishcloths.

"Harry," she sighed, settling on a chair next to him. "You are not, and you never will be responsible for his – for Y– for V-V-Voldemort's actions"

It was the fact that she said the name, more than anything, that made him look up. The sadness was still there, such dreadful sadness like she thought he was sickening for something. But there was steel there too. Something hard, and unbroken. Fierce.

He tucked into his bread and butter and dreaded falling asleep.

* * *

The room was dark. Intimately familiar in its darkness, in the cobwebs and the light streaming in through the grating on the door.

He was a child again in an instant. Dust in his nose, knowing nothing else, hunger ravaging his insides and cold seeping into his bones as he huddled against the bed. But not a child anymore, stooped to avoid brushing his head on the ceiling, fingers pressed against the door.

"Where we we?"

This time, it was Voldemort who asked the question. Harry closed his eyes and willed uselessly to wake up again.

"You said I had two weeks," he said. "Why are you here?"

The silence stretched, and Harry turned. There were only inches between them, couldn't possibly be more. The Dark Lord, pale and serpentine like the monster from a children's book, looked absurd squashed onto the ratty cot of his former bed.

Voldemort watched him silently, head tilted to one side. Harry wasn't sure what to think about the lack of gloating, the lack of sneer on that lipless mouth.

"Where are we?" the Dark Lord demanded again, even softer now. Too tall to even stand.

"The cupboard under the stairs."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed at his response, gaze tracing over the broken tin soldiers on the tattered shelves. The junk stored at the foot of the bed, the spiders that lurked in the corners. The signs of life, of…

"And you defend muggles?" Now that sneer was there. Cruel around the edges. Harry looked away again.

"Why are you here?" he asked again, in turn.

"Dreams are funny things. It's difficult to control them when you are in them."

Did that mean...Voldemort wasn't here on purpose? That he was being dragged into the orbit of Harry's mind as easily as Harry was dragged into Voldemort's? Like how Harry had ended up in the Orphanage?

The room last time, that lovely room, had been controlled - reflecting Voldemort's point. It was where Voldemort had wanted them to be, what he had wanted Harry to see. But he very much doubted the Dark Wizard had wanted him to see the orphanage, from what little Harry knew about him. The reaction to even the mere flash of it at the Ministry told him that.

Just like Harry didn't want him to see this. He swallowed.

"You could tell Lord Voldemort where to find them," Voldemort said, quietly. Harry's fists clenched all over again. Too many revelations swimming in his head, too much happening in the last twenty four hours. He couldn't deal with this right now, didn't want to.

He tried the door - locked, of course. Trapped in the bloody closet with Lord Voldemort, the universe must be playing some horrible joke on him!

"Interesting thing, dreams," Voldemort remarked, next. "Some people believe they symbolize what our minds are working through."

"I'm not trapped in the closet!" Harry snapped, before he could help himself. Colouring.

"Considering this seems to be a physical location you spent an unfortunate amount of time in, I dare say that the analogy refers more to your childhood than your sexuality explicitly. Perhaps even a marker of any situation you feel trapped in-"

"Yes, thank you for that opinion I didn't ask for." Harry gritted his teeth. "Maybe you'd like me to comment on your dreams and memories next time I'm in your head? No? Shut up."

Voldemort's lips curled.

"I imagine fate and prophecy would leave someone in a difficult position, judging from past experience on the matter. Care to share?"

Harry was rather proud of the depth of loathing he was able to put into a single look. That spell, that hatred, whispered once again in the corners of his mind. His fingers twitched. He wondered if that hatred was his own, or some poison spreading through him via their connection. By the piece of soul nestled against his own.

"No. Leave."

"You are the one who has locked the door, Potter. Not Lord Voldemort."

Harry glanced over again at that, eyes flashing. Yanked at the door again instead, hissed out Alohomora. Nothing. Voldemort gave a long-suffering sigh that Harry didn't think he had any right to.

This was insane! In the middle of everything, of that ultimatum and the war, it was beyond ridiculous that they should be stuck here like this. Harry swore, kicking the door next. Anything to break the cupboard door open. He wasn't a child anymore! The flimsy wood should have been easy!

"Pathetic." Voldemort's voice was cold. "You are a mess. A putrid, overspilling puddle of uncontrolled emotion and hormonal desires."

Harry concentrated on his breathing.

"You do it then!" he snarled.

"This is not my dream."

"Didn't stop you intruding on all of mine before." Harry's breathing caught livid in his throat. "Didn't stop you luring me to get your stupid prophecy with visions of my godfather dying!"

He could hear footsteps approaching, pounding loud. Impossibly loud outside the door. Voldemort's head tilted the other way.

"This happened before," the Dark Wizard said. "In your room. Do you remember? The room began to close in, the walls growing dusty like these, with cobwebs like these-"

"Stop it!" Harry hissed. Voldemort continued to merely stare at him, merciless.

"As I said, dream analysis in the magical world is rather more curious than its muggle counterpart. You feel trapped, so your mind is reminding you of a cage. Of a situation you feel trapped by."

Voldemort must wish to leave as much as he did, to actually be telling him this. In a...shockingly sane voice, actually, now that Harry thought about it. Maybe he found a grounding amusement in Harry's suffering.

"Who is outside the door, Potter?"

"I said stop it!" Voldemort was the last person he wanted to talk to, about any of this! What was even the point? There was a high chance he was never going to see the Dursleys again, anyway, with everything that was happening.

"Boy!" roared outside the cupboard. "Open this door! I know you're in there-" Harry wanted to shrivel into the floorboards with the way the Dark Lord was looking at him. How was this fair? How was it fair that his worst enemy should be the one to see this? How was any of it fair that-warmth.

Harry's eyes snapped open. There was no expression on Voldemort's face, and nothing in particular to the touch on his arm. It was nothing like the last dream, where the Dark Lord crowded him, smoothing hair back from his forehead and whispering promises in his head.

It was...clinical, but the warmth and completeness spreading through him was anything but. He felt himself calming, automatically. Even if that was the last thing that should have been happening right then. The sound of Uncle Vernon yelling began to fade.

"No magical child should ever have to be afraid of the muggles they live with. They do not deserve us."

The comment lingered even after he woke up, blood smeared across his face, and trying to get to the door of Fred and George's room.

"Good to see you too, mate," Ron said, one arm still wrapped tight around his torso - having apparently stopped him. Had Mad Eye and Tonks mentioned this had happened last time, for them to keep an eye on him?

Harry felt his knees give out, felt his body slowly drain cold again from that warmth.

Maybe he should start those Occlumency lessons again.


	5. Chapter 5

"I feared this might happen," Dumbledore said.

Harry sat in an awkward centre of the circle. It was all the inclusion with the Order and their meetings that he'd once wanted, and all entirely wrong. No Sirius grinning at him, no sense of fighting Voldemort and really doing something. More the sense of being some troublesome burden, or trick pony. Everyone looked so very concerned. His hands twisted in his lap.

"You think Voldemort is possessing me through the connection?" Harry said. "To get me to come to him?"

It was an easy enough conclusion to come to, seeing as Harry wasn't conscious of moving himself and his scar was bleeding after the dreams. He'd just assumed Dumbledore had already come to it, and ignored the matter seeing as Mad Eye and Tonks must have told him about it.

"There must be something we can do," Mrs Weasley said.

"We need to move him somewhere more secure," Mad-Eye suggested. "If the Dark Lord is possessing the boy…" There was that look on the ex-Auror's face again, like the one Harry had woken up to at Privet Drive.

Dumbledore's eyes seemed to bore into his skull. If Harry didn't already know what Legilimency felt like, he would have been sure the headmaster was peering right into his soul.

The dreams flashed through his mind. The clinical touch, the flares of the warmth, the falling into each other's fears and weaknesses like black hole orbits. Dumbledore must have seen something in his expression, because he leaned forward. Remus' brow furrowed with concern, as he watched Harry too.

Was that what being possessed felt like? It was very different to what Ginny had described last Christmas. The blackness, the not remembering a thing. Ginny had never mentioned anything about dreaming of Tom Riddle, though maybe that would have been something she felt too uncomfortable to bring up. Maybe it wasn't.

"It doesn't feel like it did at the Ministry," he said. "I know when I'm being possessed."

"Do you really?" Snape muttered. Harry glared at him, fists clenching at his sides.

"No matter the mark on your arm, considering the amount of time I've spent in the bastard's head, I think I know more about Voldemort than you do!" he snapped.

Snape's eyes flashed, lips pressing thin and bloodless.  
"You arrogant little-"

"-What does it feel like, Harry?" That was Dumbledore again. "If it feels different to the Ministry. Does anything unusual occur in your dreams?"

And now Harry was thinking about those dreams again. Scarlet eyes searing into him, and seeing more than Harry would have ever wanted anyone to see. A touch of colour appeared on his cheeks.

"Harry?" Remus laid a hand on his arm. "It's alright. You can tell us."

It didn't seem alright. It seemed a far too embarrassing thing, and he had no idea how to broach the topic. Didn't really want to talk about it at all, when to talk about it meant to admit to far too many things.

It might have actually been easier to tell them that Voldemort tortured him unrelenting crucios, then to admit that he...really wasn't doing that at all.

"Oh, uh, nothing too unusual," Harry said. "It's not like when the snake attacked Mrs Weasley either."

"Any time you want to answer the Headmaster's question on what it was actually like…" Severus sneered. Harry's fingers twitched against his wand, and infuriatingly Snape's expression only seemed to mock him further at the movement. Harry gritted his teeth, looking back at Dumbledore again.

"Memories," he said. That seemed an okay thing to talk about. "I get drawn into his memories. Or...he into mine. Into his dreams."

"Can you tell what his next move is?" Mad Eye asked.

Harry could guess, by the ultimatum. At least in so far as Voldemort's plans for him specifically. Dumbledore's eyes were gleaming.

"I can't imagine You-Know-Who would want Harry in his head like that," Tonks said, chewing her lip. Hair shifting colours as she thought. "Why isn't he blocking Harry out?" She looked to Dumbledore.

"I don't think he can," Harry said.

"Yes, obviously one of the most powerful Legilimens in Britain is thwarted by the mental incompetence of a-" Snape began.

"Because surviving a killing curse is completely normal too, right?" Harry didn't give the Potion's Master time to finish his latest no doubt flattering commentary on the matter. "Nothing with me and Voldemort is normal. A week ago, I would have sworn that the only thing he wanted from me was to dance on my mutilated corpse, so I guess we'll both have to deal with the shock of it."

There was a tense silence, which only Dumbledore seemed unaffected by.

"It might be possible that Voldemort is actively allowing you to see these...dreams," the Headmaster said. "In an effort to endear himself to you, and thus make you more susceptible to him."

"As if he could ever endear himself to me!" Harry said. "He killed my parents. He's spent most of my life trying to kill me!" And yet, the conversation from the night before popped relentlessly into his head.

No magical child should ever have to be afraid of the muggles they live with. They do not deserve us.

And that touch…

Harry swallowed, shaking his head. Surely Voldemort hadn't been manipulating the dreams and controlling them from the start? He'd definitely not wanted Harry there with the Orphanage! Or had that been a trick to? Had he been fooled again, just like with the visions of Sirius and the Prophecy all summer?

Harry's insides twisted.

"He's a monster," Harry continued, quieter, glaring at his knees now. Loathing his own uncertainty. "Even if he tries, I'll always remember that."

"We can't do nothing!" Mrs Weasley burst out again, to vehement nods of agreement. "The poor boy shouldn't have to deal with this!"

"We won't be doing nothing," Dumbledore said. "The Burrow has been given all the best protection and wards we can give it, Harry will not be successfully going to Voldemort regardless of his attempts, in his sleep or otherwise-"

"It's not that I'm worried about," Mad Eye interrupted, blue eye whizzing to fix on Harry as he continued to look at Dumbledore otherwise. Harry was surprised that even the ex-Auror dared to interrupt the Headmaster. "If the Dark Lord is possessing him, or in his head, he could be listening right now. How would any of us know? He could turn at any second!"

Mrs Weasley paled a little.

"Harry would never harm-" Mr Weasley began.

"We're not just dealing with Potter," Mad-eye said. "Constant Vigilance! It is foolish to let the boy roam unchecked. He should be monitored, seeing as he can't control the connection in his head."

Harry's heart was hammering.

Even the comment about the wards had his stomach rolling - it sounded far too much like another pretty sort of cage just like Voldemort was offering!

But surely he wasn't a danger, like that, was he? They'd established that during his fifth year Christmas, hadn't they? He wasn't Voldemort's weapon. Voldemort had been searching for the prophecy all that time…

Harry couldn't breathe.

Remus gave his arm another squeeze.

Worst of all, Harry was now doubting if he could protest with absolute certainty that he wasn't a threat to the people around him. He was more than just in danger of possession, he already had a constant part of Voldemort's soul in him! He shuddered.

"I don't believe we need to go to such extreme measures," Dumbledore said. Harry's eyes snapped to him, swallowing thickly. Exhaling a breath.

"You said you feared this might happen." Snape, apparently, couldn't quite help himself.

"If I could speak to Harry alone for a moment…"

People left with reluctance. Harry felt he should be honoured to be in Dumbledore's confidence, but could no longer let it warm him like it had before. Not when he was aware of how much the Headmaster had kept from him, and had apparently had no intentions of telling him if the circumstances hadn't so drastically changed.

"Sir?"

"I do not believe this is Voldemort's doing, exactly," Dumbledore said.

"...but my scar started bleeding." Harry's fists clenched. If it wasn't Voldemort... "You don't think it was the Horcrux, do you?"

"I do," Dumbledore said. "Not actively, you must understand. At least not currently. But after feeling the closeness of your souls during the possession, it is only natural that the shard would want to connect to the rest of itself. The soul is not intended to be split, it is a most obscene brand of magic. Voldemort did a great deal of damage to himself when he chose that path, even if he doesn't know it yet."

Was that the warmth? The soul piece recognizing its original? But Voldemort had touched him before, and there had only ever been the pain. None of that blessed warmth, as much as he could believe the two were connected given the sense of completeness. Harry wetted his lips.

"Will you teach me Occlumency?" He got straight to the point. "Snape was rubbish."

"Professor Snape," Dumbledore corrected gently. "And it would be my wish that you take private lessons with me throughout the year."

Harry lit up, not having expected the Headmaster to agree.  
"Really?"

Dumbledore nodded, studying him.  
"I also wish for you to keep your Invisibility Cloak with you at all times from this moment onward. Even within Hogwarts itself. Just in case, you understand me?"

Harry nodded.

"Yes sir. Of course."

"And perhaps you would be willing to further indulge me, by joining me on an errand tomorrow," Dumbledore said.

It would be wrong of Harry to smile, but this was more like it! Doing stuff just like he'd wanted. And with Dumbledore of all people! He nodded again, quickly.

"Yes sir! What are we doing?" It probably wasn't appropriate to be excited, but surely it was something to do with horcruxes? Maybe Dumbledore had found something since the last time they'd talked? If Voldemort was arrogant enough to assume only he knew his own secrets?

"We will be talking to a man who I believe to be of utmost importance in our mission," Dumbledore said. Harry nodded eagerly once more. The uneasiness from earlier had, to some extent, deflated. If Dumbledore trusted him and wasn't worried, then things couldn't truly be so bad as they seemed, could they?

Clearly he'd just let Voldemort shake him up a bit too much, trying to deal with the bastard invading his sleep all the time.

Dumbledore eventually took his leave, as more guests began to arrive.

* * *

Hermione and Fleur were now at the Burrow too- much to Ginny and Mrs Weasley's disdain on the latter - though Harry was pleased about both.

In the privacy of Ron's room, he'd snatched time to tell both Ron and Hermione about the Prophecy just as Dumbledore suggested. He told them about Horcruxes too.

He just failed to mention that he happened to be one of them.

But really, what good would telling them do anyway? They wouldn't let him...they would be against some of the solutions to the problem. The most obvious solution. How could he count them to help like Dumbledore wanted then? And he didn't want to see them look at him like that - and he especially didn't want to risk them looking at him like he was the devil incarnate either.

He didn't much like to think about the soul shard nestled somewhere against his on himself, so talking about it would make it worse. He could...deal with it. Just not if he had to actually talk about it, to someone other than Dumbledore. That just seemed to make it all seem far too real. Besides, they would only worry.

That night, there were no dreams.

* * *

Considering everything, considering Dumbledore told him to keep his wand at the ready and had implied that they were talking to somebody important, Harry's chest was currently crushed with disappointment.

Horace Slughorn was a corpulent, walrus-mustached lump of a man straining in fine clothing - and apparently they were here for a teaching post.

How could Dumbledore be thinking about the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher now?! What did it matter when at any moment Voldemort might draw all of his Horcruxes to him. What did it matter when their enemy was immortal!

Why did he even need Harry to recruit his teachers for him?

Harry's blood was pounding. He stayed stubbornly silent in the chair he'd been gestured to, as Dumbledore and Slughorn exchanged words. The only thing that got a peep out of him was the comment about Umbridge - because his hatred for her would probably never change. Slughorn's eyes hadn't left him once since they found him.

The realization that Slughorn had been moving about and fleeing Death Eaters mollified him only the barest fraction. Surely that meant something?

And then the Headmaster abandoned him.

Harry stared about the cluttered room, doing his best to ignore the prominent eyes still fixed upon his person. The scrutiny was nothing compared to a certain Dark Lord's.

"Don't think I don't know why he brought you." Slughorn broke the silence first.

"Why has he brought me?" Despite the fact that Harry was honestly lost on the matter, Slughorn merely huffed.

"You look very much like your father," Slughorn said next. Harry concentrated on staying as expressionless as possible, giving no response to that. Nor to the familiar comment about his mother's eyes. By the time Slughorn had talked about Lily Evans being his favourite student, without Harry making a sound, something had shifted in the man's expression.

He talked next about his ex-students, perhaps attempting to push through Harry's silence. That got Harry's attention, mostly because if he was being sent all of these gifts, then he couldn't even be that important to Voldemort because the Dark Wizard would have already found him and killed him with such an obvious trail to follow. Which meant all of this was even more useless! And Slughorn's happiness at the seeming popularity this implied only irritated Harry more.

"Amazing that the Death Eaters haven't found you yet," he said. "If people are sending you all of these gifts. Or was it Dumbledore you were avoiding?"

The smile slid off Slughorn's face.

"No - of course not - I have been regrettably out of touch for the past year." The man's shoulders drew back, before he smiled again. "Merely an old teacher's reminisces in dark times, I'm afraid…still, the prudent wizard keeps his head down-?"

"-Must be nice to have that option," Harry said. "Keeping your head down."  
Slughorn's watery gaze seemed to sharpen, head tilting.

"Of course...of course. It must be very difficult for you, m'boy."

"You seem like you've taught a lot of influential students," Harry plunged on. "You must be a really good teacher."

"Well-" Slughorn smiled again.

"Did you ever teach Voldemort?"

The smile was gone again, and Slughorn flinched and squawked at the name. Looked away from him now, for the first time.

"I wouldn't-"

"He would have gone by the name Tom Riddle." It was stupid, and desperate, but they came here for information, didn't they?

"As you said," Slughorn said. "I've had a lot of students-"

"Tom's memorable," Harry said. "Not really the forgettable type. About fifty years ago, dark hair, handsome bloke. Genius orphan."

"I think you should leave."

Dumbledore would no doubt be furious. Harry stood, studying Slughorn flatly. Forced a smile, after a moment, feeling like his very bones were itching.

"I'd just like to know more about him," he said, softer this time. "He killed my parents."

Dumbledore walked back in, eyes moving between the two of them. Harry could see no visible change of expression on his face.

"Harry, I do believe we've trespassed upon Horace's hospitality long enough. I think it's time we take our leave." The Headmaster turned to Slughorn. "It really would have been an honour to be able to convince you to leave retirement, but I know a lost cause when I see one. A shame...Hogwarts would have been glad to see you back again. Our greatly increased security notwithstanding, you will always be welcome to visit, should you wish to. You are one of a kind, my good man. Just like Mr Potter here. Well, come along."

Harry resisted the urge to grit his teeth. They were giving up, just like that? Dumbledore's uninjured hand landed firmly on his shoulder, turning him around and guiding him towards the door.

It was only what respect he had for the Headmaster and his wisdom that had Harry biting his tongue, for while they were in Slughorn's company at least.

He was fuming down the driveway, when the front door burst open behind them.

"Alright, alright!" Slughorn said. "I'll do it. But I want a pay rise, Dumbledore!"

Harry blinked. Dumbledore smiled.

"Wonderful," the old man said.

It still didn't make Harry feel better.

"What did you think of Horace - or, as we must call him now, Professor Slughorn?" Dumbledore asked, once they were outside of the Burrow again.

"I'm not sure how he's useful to us, sir. I thought we'd be-" he stopped himself. Swallowed bile. "Why did you need me there, sir?"

Dumbledore studied him.  
"Professor Slughorn...and I do not say this to sway your opinion on the fellow in anyway...has never wanted to occupy the throne himself; he prefers the backseat — more room to spread out, you see. He used to handpick favorites at Hogwarts, sometimes for their ambition or their brains, sometimes for their charm or their talent, and he had an uncanny knack for choosing those who would go on to become outstanding in their various fields. Horace formed a kind of club of his favorites with himself at the center, making introductions, forging useful contacts between members, and always reaping some kind of benefit in return, whether a free box of his favorite crystallized pineapple or the chance to recommend the next junior member of the Goblin Liaison Office."

Harry didn't think he liked the sound of the man at all, but the reason Dumbledore brought him along suddenly seemed depressingly clear. Harry's fists clenched.

"I'm the bait," he said. "You think he'd want to collect me."

One of a kind...just like Mr Potter.

He wasn't there to help Dumbledore, not really. It was all exactly the same as it was before, despite everything! Knowing nothing until after. Being the Boy Who Lived and the trophy that everybody wanted to be able to lift up. It wasn't about him at all, not really. He was just the object, the tool to be used.

Dumbledore's weapon and Voldemort's Horcrux. The universe was playing a sick joke on him.

"I think he will try," Dumbledore allowed. "You would be the jewel of his collection, Harry."

"I'd be the jewel of Voldemort's too."

Dumbledore was silent.

* * *

The days passed confined to the Weasley's back garden, playing two-a-side Quidditch and awaiting news of murders and disappearances.

From what Harry had gathered, there were less of these than the Order expected.

Harry's mind was racing. He kept trying to think of possible Horcruxes - but he hadn't been entirely lying to Slughorn. He needed to know more about Voldemort to be able to guess his actions.

To be able to predict him, like Voldemort so clearly knew how to push his buttons.

Know thy enemy.

And if Slughorn offered even the chance of that…

He wrote the man a letter on the third day.

If people were going to collect him anyway, and view him as some prize to be won or captured, then he may as well use that. Make it his, rather than theirs.

_Dear Professor Slughorn,_

_I'm sorry for my bluntness the other day. You've probably heard of the death of my godfather, Sirius Black, and obviously you are aware that Voldemort has returned to power. I wasn't really in the best state of mind when we met, so I'd like to apologize for any offence I caused. I look forward to your classes at Hogwarts, and any advice you can give me._

_Harry Potter._

It turned Harry's stomach, just a little bit, but...well. Defeating Voldemort was more important. Voldemort had whole armies at his commands, and a name that people everywhere feared to speak.

Harry had five years at Hogwarts. That awful title. The fact that people believed he might be able to take Voldemort down for good. It wasn't a name he'd created for himself, but he couldn't just be nobody.

If he was going to do this, he may as well do it properly. He had a lot of years of experience to catch up on, not to mention it didn't seem as if Dumbledore was planning to teach him how to cast fireballs any time soon.

And if Dumbledore wasn't going to find Horcruxes, Harry would.

* * *

It had been so long since Harry last had one of those dreams, that for a second he was utterly disoriented. The sleepwalking had continued, though Dumbledore was right that he couldn't walk past the wards.

He was in the lovely room again, which he'd decided was ominous to say the least. Because that meant Voldemort was actively controlling the dream again.

It was the night before his OWLs were due, and the two-week deadline Voldemort had given him was at an end. Harry felt like he hadn't discovered nearly enough Horcruxes in that time, considering he hadn't managed to find any more of them at all.

Slughorn had written back, at least. So he had a potential avenue of investigation there.

Voldemort seemed unchanged by the days. Harry hadn't missed the visceral intensity of his stare. He stared back, folding his eyes, and the first few moments passed in a stand-off silence.

The fact that Voldemort spoke first was a minor gratification.

"It seems you care far less for the lives of others than I had believed." The Dark Lord spoke softly. It still seemed strange to Harry that a man of such sharp edges and cruelties could have a voice like that.

He stepped back as Voldemort rose fluidly to stand, heart beating madly in his chest.

"No," he said. "I just know how little you care for them."

His opinion on that hadn't changed. He couldn't believe that Voldemort would simply … retire himself from being a Dark Lord, just because he had Harry in his grasp. Maybe he would spare a few of his friends, but Voldemort would still hurt people. Still kill them and find a way to tear families apart.

Voldemort's head tilted, reptilian. Harry tilted his own head the other way, barely daring to blink.

"This is your last chance, Harry Potter. Surrender, give yourself to me."

Harry's lips twitched. He felt drained already - could already tell, somehow, this was a Voldemort of a different mood than he had been in the cupboard. If there had been any kinship there, faked or not, it wasn't present now.

This was Lord Voldemort, the Dark Lord. Nothing else.  
It seemed funny to Harry that he'd even thought to make such a distinction.

He was going to be sick, he was sure of it.

"You are a child," Voldemort said. "You need not be concerned with this war. I could take you away from all of it."

But meeting Slughorn had clarified that much at least.

"You could," Harry said. "But you won't. Maybe if I was just…" maybe best not to let Voldemort know he knew about Horcruxes yet, in case he needed that. "I'm the Boy Who Lived. Even if you feel like you have to, you can't afford to let me live. Everyone thinks I can defeat you. As if you wouldn't hold me up like a victory trophy. That's what I am, isn't it?"

Voldemort's eyes glinted like stained glass in the sunshine. Then, slowly, the Dark Wizard smiled.

"And you believe you would be any better with the Light Side? That they will view you as anything other than a figurehead to cower behind? As normal? Anyone foolish enough to consider you more will die protecting you."

Harry felt his intestines shrivel. Voldemort stepped closer again, and this time Harry held his ground.

"I will win, Harry. You still talk about this as if you have a hope that events will play out otherwise...this decision is, as you do not seem to grasp, a simple one. It is a choice between losing comfortably or losing screaming. You may have decided you do not believe my word on sparing your loved ones the agony that awaits them – but the people you care about will die either way. Do not play the hero, my treasure, and make it worse – for them and for you. Even when they may have the eventual mercy of death, you do not."

"You won't win!"

Voldemort, terribly, seemed more amused by that statement than anything. The Dark Lord came to a stop before him, merciless.

"Let me show you."

The dream shattered again. But there were no sirens this time, no screeching or lack of control. Just chains. They closed unforgiving around his wrists and his throat as he thrashed and struggled.

Maybe Harry didn't expect the Occlumency to block Voldemort entirely, but it would be fantastic to have some mental control of the dreams they shared!

It felt like forever.

Time moved differently in dreams, but Harry hadn't expected such a thing to ever be used against him to such ruthless effect.

* * *

_The only light came from the small holes in the ceiling. The whole room was no bigger than a coffin, and there was nothing to do._

_There was no way of escaping the chains, though Harry tried. He tried for what felt like days. Scratching and clawing, but he couldn't move an inch. He was suspended in a hellish sort of purgatory, with tubes scratching against his throat. Forcing sustenance and fluids into him, every so often, so he couldn't even starve._

_He tried telling himself that he was dreaming, but as the days slipped past and then the weeks, he wasn't entirely sure._

_He never saw Voldemort. He never saw anyone - even when he screamed until he could scream no more._

_He lost track of time. There was no time. Nothing changed. There was no way of counting, no sunrises or sunsets. The floor beneath him opened to dispose of his waste when needed._

_He retreated. Remembered. Remembering was the only thing he had._

_And then there was light. Light and Voldemort's grip like a blazing warmth in his soul, and there were people. So many people and voices that they seemed deafening. He had to close his eyes, shrink back into that completeness as fingers stroked through his hair._

_When he was put in his cage again, he cried._

* * *

Harry startled as the room appeared again without warning. He'd forgotten what it looked like, the room, but however lovely it had been before, it seemed like heaven now.

Open windows - and grass - and Voldemort sitting there watching him quietly.

Harry was abruptly aware of the fact that no time, or very little time, had really passed at all. A trick of the mind, but Harry could still feel it clawing mad at his nerve endings like the lingering of some grotesque nightmare even after he awoke.

His breathing quickened. His knees buckled, not wanting to hold his weight, fingers digging against the floor.

"Is that really what you are going to choose, Harry Potter?" Voldemort asked. "I said I would keep you alive. I have no obligation to do anything else with you, if you decide to make this difficult."

* * *

It was morning. The Burrow was unchanged, but Harry couldn't believe it. Everything...was the same. Those years had never happened, in the darkness. There were boxes of Fred and George's experiments, voices bustled downstairs.

Harry rolled over and vomited across the floor.

A dream, just a dream. Just Voldemort playing with his head, in a way Harry had never thought possible.

The feeling of the cage was fading already, couldn't possibly be sustained without insanity. But the memory of it lingered. The imprint of effect and possibility, and the sheer sense of coldness in his blood.

He willed his hands to stop shaking before he went downstairs.

"I'm sure I failed everything!" Hermione said. She was vibrating on the spot, distracted from her breakfast and even Ron looked a little green. Harry blinked.

"How are you feeling, Harry dear? Eggs?" Mrs Weasley asked upon spotting him. It was all so normal that Harry didn't know what to do with it. He nodded dumbly, sitting down before his knees turned to water.

Hermione was glancing at the window every two seconds.

"What's going on?" Harry asked.

She looked at him, incredulously.  
"How can you have forgotten! Our OWLs are arriving any minute."

"Wish I could forget," Ron muttered.

"I know I messed up Ancient Runes," Hermione said. "I definitely made at least one serious mistranslation-"

"Hermione!" Ron snapped. "You're not the only one who's nervous."

Harry wanted to laugh again, in some awful way. He'd cleaned up the vomit in his room, but looking at the sizzling eggs on his plate made his stomach roll all over again.

What did OWLs matter now?

"At Beauxbatons," Fleur said. "We 'ad a different way of doing things. I think eet was better. We sat our examinations after six years of study, not five, and then-"

Hermione screamed. Harry flinched and dropped the cup of tea he'd just accepted. It was, possibly, the only reaction that could have drawn her attention away from the three black specks approaching the house.

"Harry?" Ginny's brow furrowed. "What's wrong?"

"I-nothing. You just-just startled me," he finished. Lamely.

Mrs Weasley distractedly opened the window to let the...four owls in. Four. Weren't there three of them? Mrs Weasley seemed to have the same thought, but the owl pecked her hand, staring balefully at Harry once Mrs Weasley retreated.

"It's for you, Harry," she said, puzzled.

Ron and Hermione's discussion was washing in and out of his ears like a badly tuned radio. He reached a numb hand out to the owl, untying the scroll with ringing ears.

He had an awful feeling who it was from, even as he fumbled to get it open. There was a growing tightness in his chest.

_For you, my dearest treasure._

News of the Little Whinging slaughter didn't come until over an hour later, from the dying hands of Arabella Figg.

It was Harry's move.

* * *

_A/N: Erm, Happy Valentine's Day?_


	6. Chapter 6

Harry couldn't breathe.

He imagined Little Whinging crumbling to ash like the letter had, smudging black against his fingers. He could almost see it – fire and smoldering ruins everywhere, people screaming helpless against a threat they had no idea how to face.

The Order were running hectic, people coming in and out of the house in droves. Harry barely noticed them.

Dumbledore had sent a gentle reminder that Voldemort was provoking him, and that under no circumstances should he go to the Dark Lord.

As if Harry didn't know he was being provoked!

But how could he just do nothing?

He didn't even know if he wanted to go to Voldemort or not, considering that dream. But he knew the likelihood of ending up in that nightmare, of having his dreams become reality, only increased the more he made things difficult. The longer he stayed away.

He was still waiting for news on the Dursleys.

(He was going to be sick again.)

"What's the plan?" It was the first time he'd spoken in over an hour. His voice had strengthened, hoarseness gone; he stood up, eyes flashing and shoulders squared. "I'm not going to let him get away with threatening me. He's killing people in my name."

"Yeah!" Ron said. "We need to stop him."

"And what were you going to do, Potter?" Mad Eye demanded. They'd been rotating adult Order members to keep an eye on him. None of them were even trying to be subtle about it anymore, about their concern that he might wander off – consciously or not. Even Hermione had been eyeing him cautiously. "You can't do anything. It's what he wants – a reaction."

True. Probably. Harry's jaw clenched.

"I want books," he said. "I want to be able to practice magic, and learn. Obviously if I go up against him now I'm screwed. You were an Auror, teach me something."

For the first time, a flicker of respect appeared on Mad-Eye's grizzled face.

"Don't know what Dumbledore's thinking, not having taught you a thing or two already," the man said.

Harry didn't bloody know either. Especially in light of the prophecy – how could he not have started training from birth?! If Harry had had charge of the boy who was going to have the fate of Britain on his shoulders, he would hope to give him a bit more skill than the power of cuddles.

Luck had got him this far, but … he wasn't sure it would be enough this time.

Of course, hiding and training was useful, but it didn't satisfy the itch in his bones. It wouldn't bring anyone back to life, or stop more people dying tomorrow.

His OWL results had never seemed more irrelevant.

* * *

_Professor Snape,_

_You're the best person at Occlumency that I know of, except for Dumbledore I suppose. I know our lessons last year ended horribly, and I want to apologize for that and ask if you would be willing to continue them again?_

_I personally think it is more important to tolerate each other for the sake of the living, rather than to hate each other for the sake of the dead – though sorry for my dad being such an idiot._

_And as you know what Voldemort is really like, more than most, I believe that your insights would be an additional boon – if you are willing to share them, of course._

Harry hesitated, glaring down at the piece of paper. It had taken him half an hour and five drafts to get even that much, and he still wasn't sure if it was right.

"Maybe tell him why you think the lessons didn't work out?" Hermione suggested. "I mean, you seemed to be having trouble even … uh, even before the last session."

"Because Snape's a git," Ron said.

Harry snorted.

_Or, if you feel you don't have time to teach me personally, perhaps you could give me some more tips? Maybe something a bit more than 'clear your mind', because honestly I have no idea what that even means. Are there other ways of doing Occlumency and that's just your personal take, or is that it?_

_Well, anyway. Please consider it, and I'll try and do better._

_Yours sincerely,_

"You can't put 'yours,'" Ron said, nose wrinkling. Harry crossed it out, making a noise of agreement, and just signed his name.

"You're doing the right thing," Hermione said.

It still didn't feel like enough.

* * *

He fell sleeping into that beautiful prison of a room again. He was slowly growing to hate it, despite its loveliness.

His eyes narrowed on Voldemort.

The Dark Lord stared back at him from across the room, rising from the bed.

"I take it you still refuse to come?"

Harry's mind raced. If he said no, more people were going to end up dead tomorrow. If he said yes – well, saying yes and actually going to the dark wizard wasn't an option. His heart squeezed in his chest.

He dropped his gaze.

"They won't let me," Harry said.

Voldemort was at his side in a flash, fingers tight on his jaw. Harry jumped out of his skin, even as the warmth immediately flooded him. He willed his mind not to betray him, tried to channel the mess of emotions into the right expression on his face.

"They?" the Dark Lord repeated, head tilting.

"The Order," Harry said. "Dumbledore. They know you want me to come to you."

He nearly added 'they know what I am', but was grateful he managed to stop. It was best that he kept any potential advantage he could get, even if all he had was pretended ignorance.

"Where are you?" Voldemort asked.

Harry wetted his lips. "I don't know. A safe house or something."

The dark wizard's eyes burned like hellfire as they studied him. Harry locked his muscles, willing himself not to let a shiver run down his spine.

"How convenient," Voldemort said.

Harry jutted his chin up, hand rising to grip Voldemort's wrist as spidery fingers clutched his chin. "You really think they'd tell me if they thought I'd tell you? You're not the only one who's noticed my 'saving people thing'." His voice chilled.

"You seem to have a knack for being slippery." A rather horrible smile crossed that lipless mouth. "I'm sure you have more than enough incentive to make a daring escape."

Harry swallowed. He wasn't sure if Voldemort believed his lies, or if he was simply mocking their uselessness by trapping Harry in them anyway.

The memories of all who had died in the Little Whinging massacre, all his hated childhood bullies, all the grown-ups who never saw enough or simply didn't care, swelled like nausea in his throat.

But the prickling was even worse. The hunger of wanting to know what happened to his family. The rancid eagerness of what Voldemort had done, similar to how Harry remembered the roar that rose in his blood as Bellatrix screamed.

"What did you do to them?" he asked, barely audibly. He jerked his head away from the steely grip.

"Merely another little incentive, my treasure." It seemed obscene that Voldemort would – could! – purr. The scene around them rippled and changed, as the Dark Lord's hand slid to his shoulder, squeezing like talons.

It was a dungeon, of sorts. Gloomy, without windows or comfort. A cellar.

The Dursleys huddled in the darkness – bruised, battered, but ultimately no worse for wear. Still alive, if this wasn't another trick.

Harry had no idea anymore, whether any of the things Voldemort showed him were real.

"An incentive?"

"I told you, Harry Potter – Lord Voldemort can be generous to those who please him," Voldemort said. The words whispered like a serpent's hissed caress in his ear. It reminded Harry of the Ministry again, of when he tortured Bellatrix.

He should probably be disturbed by how often the memory of that moment resurfaced in his mind.

"You spared them?" Harry's brow furrowed. Could he make Voldemort spare others, if he'd managed to get him spare some of the Muggles he so hated?

"A prize for you," Voldemort murmured. "A chance for closure, and vengeance."

Vengeance.

Harry's blood ran cold. Something like a laugh, but too high pitched to be sincere, slipped out of his throat as he stared at Voldemort.

"You seriously think I'm going to kill them?"

"This is a dream." Voldemort sounded entirely too pleasant, as if he was still satiated and lulled by the murders of the day. Indulgent. "You can do whatever you want with them right now, surely?"

It should not have been so tempting. Harry was going to throw up, and he recoiled away from the Dark Lord, only for fingers to clamp down, steely claws digging into his skin.

"I –" He stared at the Dursleys, shaking and unaware of his presence. Just a dream. Except Voldemort might have them for real.

Surely it wasn't the doing, but the intent of it? But if this was a dream, if he didn't actually do it, surely it was … well, not okay, but better? Thinking bad things was better than doing bad things?

Harry didn't even know anymore.

His fingers flexed at his sides, before he jerked his gaze away from his relatives. No. He was not thinking about this. Absolutely not. He didn't want to do anything like that.

Even if it might soften Voldemort into thinking he had an advantage.

"No."

"No?" Voldemort's fingers tightened further, bruising. "You do not believe they deserve punishment? They are despicable human beings."

"So are you," Harry muttered.

Voldemort laughed.

"Would you prefer to throw a Cruciatus Curse at Lord Voldemort then, Harry Potter?"

Harry's heart stopped. He was convinced that he'd misheard. He turned his head, pulse thumping in his throat to watch the Dark Lord looming so close behind him.

The words and promises of blood and torture seemed at ridiculous odds with the lingering sense of completion, that Harry just couldn't shake.

The silence stretched, the lack of refusal hanging between them.

Harry's head was swimming. He wished he'd wake up, just to flee the situation. Even if real life wasn't any less of a nightmare at this point.

"What's the catch?"

"No catch," Voldemort said, oh so soft, something unreadable in his eyes.

It seemed Harry actually had heard right. His wand materialized in his itching palms, as he looked between it and the immobile Dark Lord.

"I torture you in a dream, and you torture me in real life?"

Then again, Voldemort had tortured him already, and Harry doubted the Dark Wizard would suddenly stop doing that now. An eternity of torment, when it was death Voldemort would never give him now.

Hurting him didn't change that. Didn't change the hate in Voldemort's eyes. It might just give Harry a chance to inflict some of his own pain back. His retribution.

God, he didn't just think that.

Maybe Voldemort's insanity was contagious.

Harry's eyes narrowed, as he took a step back. There was definitely something in Voldemort's expression, Harry just didn't know what. He leveled his wand at the man, testing. But the monster didn't move. Watching him in turn.

Harry exhaled a deep breath.

The hate was there, all too readily. Coiled like a serpent in the pit of his stomach, ready to strike.

It was the smile that spread on Voldemort's face that did it.

"_Crucio!_"

It was just as easy the second time.

Pity the dreamscape shattered without the Dark Lord controlling it to the same extent.

Harry heard the first tantalizing screams, tearing out of Voldemort's throat. Felt the rush of power flood him, even as the warm completeness turned to pain throbbing through his skull.

It was worth it.

The widening of scarlet eyes, the body flung across the room writhing, twisting this way and that like a broken puppet. All pale lines, and shadows.

Then he woke up.

His own disappointment made him shudder.


	7. Chapter 7

"Harry," Mr Weasley hovered before him. "There's someone from the Ministry - a Ms Mafalda Hopkirk - to see you."

Harry blinked, not sure what to do with that information for a few seconds. He wracked his brains for why the name seemed familiar to him, but couldn't place it. So he tried to think what he'd done to warrant a visit from the Ministry, especially one allowed to happen when he was supposed to be under lock and key.

He exchanged a look with Ron and Hermione, brow furrowed, but got to his feet.

Mr Weasley looked uncomfortable. It didn't bode well.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"They're in the garden," Mr Weasley said. "Not you too," he added, when Ron and Hermione moved to follow him.

Harry's fingers flexed around his wand in his pocket. He grabbed his jacket, traipsing out into the garden, expression carefully composed and his mouth dry.

Hopkirk seemed to be a wispy, greying woman.

Next to her, stood Dawlish - who Harry recognized from Dumbledore's office.

His heartbeat quickened.

"Mr Potter," Hopkirk nodded at him. "My name is Mafalda Hopkirk; we have corresponded before on the issue of your hovering charm in 1992. I work for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement – Improper Use of Magic division. You've met Auror John Dawlish."

"It's nice to meet you," Harry managed a twitch of a smile, stomach dropping as he stuck his hand out. "Have I - I'm sorry, but have I done something wrong?"

He glanced at Dawlish.

"We have been sorting through the paperwork surrounding the events at the Department of Mysteries last June," she said. "And we came across something...strange."

"Well, it is the Department of Mysteries," Harry said.

"Your wand was detected as successfully performing the Cruciatus Curse, Potter." Dawlish studied him.

_Shit._

"Ah, yeah, I didn't do it." He couldn't go to Azkaban, he just couldn't - and he knew the consequences of that curse well enough. His gut twisted. Really, the lie came before he could really think it through.

"It's on your wand," Dawlish raised a brow.

Harry's mind raced, and he tugged a hand through his hair.

"I lost my wand when I was duelling Voldemort-" they both flinched at the name. "He cast the curse at me. Suppose he thought it would be funny using my own wand against me."

Hopkirk paled, but they both continued to watch him.

Harry resisted the urge to swallow.

"You are aware," Dawlish said, "that the use of an Unforgivable Curse is strictly prohibited by the Ministry of Magic and-"

"I know," Harry nails biting into his palms." One way ticket to Azkaban. I'd never use Dark Magic like that."

"I believe you," Hopkirk said. "But was there anyone with you who can account for this? Protocol, you understand, Mr Potter. This is, as you are aware, an extremely serious offense."

"Voldemort was," Harry stuck his hands into his pockets. "But I doubt he'd vouch for me."  
They couldn't snap his wand. Not now, not ever! His fingers curled around the warm holly, that tingled against his palm.

Dawlish's eyes flicked down. "You seem nervous."

Harry took a breath. "Funnily enough, feeling like white hot knives are being stabbed all over my body isn't the nicest thing to remember."

"You can describe the curse?" Hopkirk's eyes cleared. It was only with the clearing, that Harry became aware of the lingering suspicion.

His blood pounded in his chest, and he couldn't help but feel each raw breath as it swept in and out of his lungs. He still didn't feel like he was getting quite enough oxygen.

"Yeah." He didn't even have to lie. "It's the - his magic - it's overwhelming. I wanted to die. It felt like-" He squeezed his eyes shut, and her hand squeezed his shoulder. Harry's eyes snapped open.

"It's alright," she murmured. "You don't need to recall it further."

"How did you survive?" Dawlish's head tilted. "You were, presumably, defenseless before He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

It had felt like he was, wand in hand or not.

"Dumbledore turned up," Harry said. "That's in your report, isn't it? Voldemort dropped my wand during the duel."

Dawlish examined him a moment longer, before nodding.

"You will need to attend a hearing," Hopkirk said. "Just to officially clear things up, but it should be fine."

Well, at least they weren't going to snap his wand.  
Harry exhaled a breath, smiling shakily.

"Of course," he said. "Thanks."

"We'll send you a letter to inform you of your court date. It should take place within the next few weeks."

They left him standing, gut clenched, in the Weasley's backyard.

* * *

"What the hell was that about?" Ron demanded, at his side in an instant.

Harry swallowed. "They just need to clear something up, from the battle. Protocol."

He could feel Mr Weasley's gaze burning into the back of his neck.

"What about it?" Hermione touched his arm. "You're not in trouble, are you?"

He looked to Mr Weasley. "I have a...uh...another court hearing. Would I be able to come to the Ministry with-"

"Of course," Mr Weasley said.

"A court case?" Ginny's eyes widened. "Over what? They're not talking to any of us!"

Harry hesitated a moment, but figured there was a high chance it was going to get out somehow. "They found a Cruciatus Curse on my wand."

Ron swore.

"But you didn't cast it," Hermione began.

Harry's gut twisted again at how easily she assumed the best of him, and the memory of Voldemort screaming rose unbidden in his mind. He wetted his lips. Cut her off so he could tell them the same story he told the Ministry Officials. "She basically said it's just protocol," he finished.

Silence seeped into every corner of the Burrow.

"Well," Hermione twisted her fingers through her hair. "You shouldn't have any problems or anything - I'll look it up, there are probably cases and transcripts for the type of questions they'll ask you.

"They'll want a memory," Ginny said. "And they'll probably have you take Veritaserum."

Shit. He was screwed, he was absolutely screwed.

"But they said it's just protocol, isn't that a bit-"

"Harry, they have to check," Mr Weasley said. His face seemed uncommonly tired, grave. "This isn't a Patronus Charm. The use of any one of the Unforgivables is enough to warrant-"

"A one-way ticket to Azkaban," Harry finished again. Dread coiled in his spine.  
Could memories be tampered with? Could he tamper with a memory well enough be his hearing?

If he went to Azkaban, it was like giving him to Voldemort! All wrapped up with a bloody bow. Not to mention the Dementors...ice flooded his veins.

"So...the worst case scenario here…" he wetted his lips.

"You haven't done anything wrong!" Ron started.

"I know," Harry held his hands up. "They just...well, wouldn't be the first time the Ministry sent an innocent man to Azkaban, and they don't like me. And I'm pretty sure some of the purebloods sitting in that Jury are going to be Death Eaters, so they're gonna want to sic me straight to Azkaban and-"

When was the last time he'd lied this much to his friends?

"Worst case is the Dementors kiss," Mr Weasley said. "But they won't do that to you. You're underage."

"And you're Harry Potter!" Ginny's fists clenched.

"And you're Harry Potter," Mr Weasley said.

"So?" Harry's heart leapt into his mouth. "Azkaban and my wand snapped?"

Mr Weasley said nothing. Maybe that meant he didn't need to, when everyone in the room looked sick.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut.

_Fuck._

* * *

_Potter,_

_Any hint of your normal insufferableness, and our lessons will end. You will join me for Occlumency lessons three times a week, schedule permitting._

_I will tolerate absolutely nothing but your best._  
_I will see you at 10pm tonight._

* * *

Personally, Harry thought the universe should reward him, not punish him, for crucioing Voldemort.

Apparently the universe didn't agree.

Although, really, he had requested the lessons - even if it was rather difficult to remember why as the greasy dungeon bat loomed terrifyingly in the door to the Burrow.

"Professor Snape," Mrs Weasley said, (whilst Ron pretending to gag out of view) "you missed dinner. You can have the living room-"

"I will use whatever room the boy is staying in," Snape said. "...I would not wish to intrude upon your evening activities."

It sounded like it gave Snape great pain to extend that courtesy.

This was going to be so much fun.

"Thank you for agreeing to help me...sir," Harry said.

He just really wished it wasn't tonight, considering the mess of a day he'd been having. His hearing was next week, he'd had a letter about an hour ago.

Apparently the Ministry could be very efficient only when Harry absolutely didn't want them to be.

Snape shot him an unreadable look, and simply swooped up the stairs with an (admittedly impressive) swish of his cloak.

Dread knotted Harry's stomach all over again, and he could feel his headache just waiting to start.

"It will be alright," Hermione said. "He's a teacher. Just be respectful."

Ron gave him a commiserating look.

"Try not to die," Ginny said.

Mrs Weasley admonished her, but Harry snorted - lips twitching despite themselves as he grinned at her. He hurried up the stairs after Snape.

The man shut the door to Fred and George's room behind him, examining the boxes with a not entirely unfounded suspicion, before he conjured a chair. "Sit, Potter."

Harry did so. He supposed it was a good sign that Snape hadn't broken into his head the second he stepped into the room.

Snape studied him for a moment, no expression on his face still.  
"Clearing your mind is the most effective way of protecting your mind, particularly against the Dark Lord, I would believe. Aside of your horrendous emotional control, you do not have any natural distance from his mind like most people would have."

Harry blinked. "Because we can feel each other's emotions?"

Was it even possible to learn Occlumency as a Horcrux? He had to try.

Snape stared at him.

"Sir," Harry added.

"Yes," Snape said. "Emotions are the most visceral connectors of memory, and the most likely cause to loss of mental control in all aspects of life. Emotions trigger connecting memories, making it extremely easy for the Dark Lord to pinpoint everything that you most want to hide."

"So how do I clear my mind, sir?"

Snape looked like he'd swallowed Bubotuber Pus. "There are subtle and unsubtle methods, the unsubtle more likely to provoke someone to ravage your mind to break through your defenses. However, your abysmal mental control makes it evident that we should start there."

"There are different levels...sir?"

"Of course you foolish boy," Snape snapped. "All magic has different levels." The man pinched the bridge of his nose, before pulling a book out from beneath his cloak and thrusting it in Harry's direction like he wanted to stab him through the eyes with it.

Harry accepted the tome, turning it over in his hand.

_A Guide to Advanced Occlumency - Maxwell Barnett._

Of course Snape couldn't have given this to him before Sirius died. Harry's fingers tightened, white-knuckling, bile in his throat and this time, when he tried to swallow it down, he couldn't.

Because then it would just be his fault again. Maybe it was his fault, either way.

"That is my personal copy," Snape said. "If you get one smear of your grubby fingers on the pages, if there is one crease, I will have you scrubbing the first year's cauldron's with your toothbrush until you graduate."

Harry gently set the book down on the bed, forcing his fingers to release. "Thank you, sir."

"You will read chapter 1-3 before our next lesson. Take notes. Now, let's see you recall from last term - you have thirty seconds to calm yourself."

He wondered if Snape had been part of the Little Whinging massacre. Double agent or not.

The next second he hit his knees as Snape broke into his mind.

* * *

Harry's head pounded.

He curled up in bed, drained by the events of the day but struggling to sleep. Though, nowadays, that wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

He needed to sort this out somehow before the hearing. He doubted how well 'she deserved it' would go down, in light of his lying in the first place.

He pressed his fingers into his eyes, hoping the cold would ease the throbbing pain in his temples.

It didn't.

He started sifting through Snape's Occlumency book instead. Maybe it would be so mind-numbingly boring that it would send him to sleep.

Apparently 'simple Occlumency' was like putting up a mental wall that the person invading him would hit - that blocked all thoughts from coming out of his head or being read. Very obvious to anyone attempting to get in his mind, but effective enough for the purpose he supposed.

Advanced Occlumency was...something else. A controlled block, more like the suppression of memories and the offering up of others. If done well, nobody could tell the difference, regardless of lies or truth.

Apparently, a truly talented Occlumens could even resist Veritaserum.

Harry's eyes lit up, before he realized how unlikely it was that he would become a master Occlumens within the next seven days. Especially considering his track record in the subject. He nearly threw the book into the wall, before just rubbing his eyes and setting it aside.

Maybe he should run.

He could hide out and hunt Horcruxes - Dumbledore would probably help him. But it wasn't like he could go back to Hogwarts if they snapped his wand.

He swallowed, trying to remember how to breathe. The powerlessness swelled in his chest again, and he turned his wand over in his hands, eyes dark.

He heard the wind creaking outside, the murmur of Ron and Hermione's voices from Ron's room just above him. The whole house smelled like Mrs Weasley's baking.

He pulled the duvet up to his chin.

All he wanted to do was Crucio Voldemort again.

* * *

He woke up to the lovely room and knew it would be a bad night.

Harry could have sobbed. "Can't you let me sleep one night?"

"I am not controlling this dream," Voldemort said. "You envisioned this room all by yourself this time, Harry Potter."

Harry froze, eyes darting up to the Dark Lord. A small smile played along the corner's of the bastard's lipless mouth, and Harry shuddered. "I wouldn't come here," Harry said.

"And yet here we are," Voldemort said. "Perhaps your subconscious is telling you to surrender."

That would almost be reassuring in comparison to Harry's twisting suspicions...though, of course, the fact that he dreamed up this room of theirs was absurd. No way. Absolutely not.

He sank to sit on the bed, not even bothering to try the doors or to flinch away from the Dark Lord this time.

Scarlet eyes dissected him. "It is easy to get a taste for dark magic, is it not, my treasure?" He sounded positively delighted.

"I am not getting a taste for dark magic!"

"Oh, you may be able to lie to everyone else, but you can't lie to Lord Voldemort," came the response. "Especially not about this. Lord Voldemort knows."

"Did you know that talking in third person is a sign of madness?"

Pain throbbed through Harry's scar.

"I could feel how much you enjoyed it, Harry," Voldemort's voice softened - hushed, intimate. "The pleasure you got from using that spell, the power...we are more alike than you could ever dream of."

Harry was pretty sure he could, and did, dream of that nightmare quite vividly.

"You deserved it, it's different."

He could feel Voldemort smile at that comment, though the older wizard said nothing for a while.

Harry closed his eyes and tried to relax...wasn't sure if that could be considered a sign of madness too.

"It is a profoundly masochistic act to choose to torture someone in such a manner when your mind is connected to theirs," Voldemort said. "One wonders which of us you are attempting to punish. It is extraordinary that you could sustain the curse for longer than a second."

"And this is coming from you when you're the one who brought the idea up? Or what, didn't you expect me to do it?"

"It is not what the world would expect from Dumbledore's golden boy," Voldemort said. "But nor is torturing Bella. When is your hearing?"

Harry stiffened, jerking to sit up, tensed. "How do you know about that?"

"Lord Voldemort _knows_."

Was the bastard actually teasing him now? Cruel mockery, at the least. Bloody eyes gleamed in the setting sun, that bathed the whole room gold.

Red and gold, not colours he would associate with the Slytherin Heir.

"You have contacts in the ministry," Harry narrowed his eyes.

"Do I?"

Contacts other than Malfoy, and the Death Eaters who had been captured and outed after the events of the Department of Mysteries. That must be how he knew.

The image of them snapping his wand again, or locking him away with the Dementors, spasmed in his chest again. But he couldn't react now, not here. Not in front of him.

Harry's nails bit at his palms.

"Self-destructive behaviour, you do that frequently," Voldemort said. "Unclench your fist."

"Stop it," Harry hissed. "Stop invading my mind and commenting."

"You're a ticking time bomb, Harry Potter." The satisfaction in Voldemort's voice made a shiver run down his spine, as the Dark Lord stood up and stretched. "You really should come to me before you hurt someone you love."

"Did you plan this whole thing so they'd throw me into Azkaban?"

"Nobody forced you to cast that curse," Voldemort said. "You wanted to. You still want to - even this very second."

"You deserved it!"

"And all those you find not deserving are condemned beneath your judgment?" Voldemort raised a brow. "What gives you that right?"

"What gives it to you?" Harry bared his teeth, eyes flashed. "You condemn everyone!"

Voldemort's smile stretched razor-sharp. "So you know who you sound like, my treasure."

Harry's heart stopped. "I - that's not - you-"

"Power decides all, Harry Potter." The Dark Lord turned away from him. "And history is written by the victor. Perhaps, next time, we can take a tour of the gardens. Now go to sleep, Lord Voldemort needs to work still tonight."

Everything went black.

* * *

_A/N: You mean I have a plot that isn't completely about Voldemort and Harry talking? Oh my god, what is happening! Hope you enjoyed the chapter. Good luck to all of you with exams! _


	8. Chapter 8

Harry spent the week utterly failing to become an advanced master of Occlumency.

He didn't even manage to throw Snape out of his head, though he liked to think he'd got a little better between the lessons and the book.

No chance of lying under Veritaserum though.

Was there a chance the Ministry would understand?

All he knew was, he couldn't let Ron and Hermione find out when the Daily Prophet inevitably posted headlines about the Boy-Who-Crucio'd or any such thing.

He swallowed, twirling a thread of Ron's lurid orange Chudley Cannons duvet between his fingers as they lounged in the bedroom.

Hermione had spent the whole week poring over old transcripts for any cases he could cite to back his case, and to analyse them for questions.

But they still thought he was innocent.

His court case was in just over twenty-four hours.

"I did it." The confession blurted out like vomit.

They looked at him.

"The Crucio," Harry said, voice barely a whisper. "I cast it. They're going to know."

For a moment, silence smothered the room.

"Fuck," Ron growled, low in his throat.

"You're telling us this now?" Hermione's voice pitched too high, shrill, eyes wide. "We could have planned - we could have - oh, Harry, why?"

Harry tugged a clammy hand through his hair, shoulders tensed. "She killed Sirius."

"Oh god, Harry…" Hermione sounded heartbroken.

"It's Bellatrix Lestrange," Harry swallowed. "She's a known Death Eater and she killed my last family member, if the Ministry were going to have mercy-"

"Mercy." Ron's eyes blazed. "Harry, don't you get it? It's an Unforgivable. You literally cannot cast it unless you just want to cause pain. No righteous anger, just wanting to make someone hurt-"

"She deserved it!" Harry said.

"-Maybe they won't snap your wand and send you to Azkaban, you're Harry Potter...but they're not going to drop all charges and pretend it didn't happen." Ron surged to his feet. "That is the worst spell you could cast. There's no justification for it."

Harry's blood boiled at those words, eyes narrowing, something coiling vicious in the pit of his stomach. "So you think I should go to Azkaban?"

"No!" Ron yelled, before Hermione shushed him. "No," Ron bit out, quieter, barely audible. "Merlin, no. I just...fuck. It takes power to cast that curse. You can't just pick up a wand, point and say the words wanting to hurt someone."

Hermione dove through her books again, hands trembling.

"So what am I looking at then?" Harry asked, fingers flexing, nails digging into his palms to squash down the feeling in his gut. Like he was about to explode.

A ticking time bomb…

Ron's skin tinged green, as he sagged to sit again as if his strings had been cut, and all energy had drained from him. "You're Harry bloody Potter. That counts for something. I just...St Mungo's. At least for a while. Some type of surveillance, I don't know. They might take your wand, they might not. There's talk of you being the only one who can...you know...the prophecy."

The Ministry liked people who were useful to them. Who didn't challenge them. And though there would be Death Eaters in his jury...there would also be those who weren't.

Harry's head spun, and it felt like the floor would rise up to meet him before everything went still.

Slowly, he smiled, for the first time in days.

"Hermione, do you still have any contact or power over Rita Skeeter?"

* * *

"I must admit, I didn't expect to hear from you, dear." Skeeter eyed him like chum dropped in a shark tank.

It had absolutely nothing on Voldemort's scrutiny.

"I think we could help each other," Harry said. "Same deal as last time, except this time I'll pay you. You've met Hermione." Harry forced a smile, dark circles smeared beneath his eyes.

Skeeter's lips thinned, before she beamed and heartily shook Hermione's hand. "So nice to see you again." There was something like wary admiration in her eyes, despite everything.

Hermione smiled. "Remember, no twisting his words."

It had been hell getting the Order to allow a meeting. They flooded him with questions, and Harry missed being able to move and act freely more than ever. He clearly hadn't appreciated it enough before in his life.

Ron stared her down.

She looked between the three of them for a moment, before smiling again. Fluttering to sit and draw her quill - examining her surroundings with a somewhat vicious interest.

"So, Harry," she gestured for him to sit, leaning in. "There are a lot of rumours going around, suggesting that you might be the one to be able to defeat He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Care to shed some light on the matter?"

Harry knew she'd ask that question, and leaned in.  
"It's true," he said. "There was a Prophecy…"

Her eyes gleamed.

* * *

Harry was led into the same courtroom as last time - Courtroom 10.

Despite his efforts, he felt nauseous.

His interview with Rita Skeeter had been released that morning, and Harry could feel the unrest and the murmuring among the jury.

His legs felt numb, jellied.

Dumbledore was nowhere to be seen.

The shadowy figures of the jury loomed over him at every side, and Harry's footsteps echoed too loud over the stone floors as he made his way to the chair.

Couldn't help but think that, this time, the chains would wrap around and restrain him. Recognize him as a criminal, somehow.

Hermione said they only chained those that they considered dangerous, and that she doubted an underage wizard would be considered that.

He swallowed, hard, scar tingling. Not throbbing with pain, but...something.

It did nothing to make him feel better when he sat down, staring up at Fudge. Studying the faces of the jury, trying to read their opinion on him. Some had the same austere expressions as last time, some the same frank curiosity, and then there was something more.

A guardedness, an unease, hard to put his finger on.

This wasn't a disciplinary hearing over casting a patronus charm underage.

Harry exhaled a breath.

"Disciplinary Hearing, 22nd July," Fudge began. "Into offenses committed under the Decree of Appropriate Wizardry by Harry James Potter, resident of number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.  
Interrogators: Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister of Magic; Pius Thicknesse, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister; Rufus Scrimgeour, Head of the Auror Office…"

Harry could practically hear the tightness in Fudge's voice - had heard the rumours on how Fudge's time in office was short-lived now. He could be booted out any day; people were crying for Scrimgeour to replace him.

Harry thought the Head Auror certainly looked more intimidating than Fudge and his bowler hats - lion-like, grizzled and maned.

Harry just didn't know where they stood with each other, though the man examined him with thinly veiled interest. Could be good or bad.

This time, Dumbledore didn't come sweeping in with comments about being the 'Witness for the Defense.'

The sick feeling in Harry's stomach grew. Was he supposed to have hired a Lawyer? Probably.

His scar prickled again, and he resisted the urge to rub it.

"Charges," Fudge said. "That Mr Potter cast the Cruciatus Curse on the 18th of June, within the Ministry Atrium, in the full knowledge that the use of any of the Unforgivables is illegal and punishable with an immediate sentence to Azkaban. How do you plead?"

Harry's ears rang. He wondered if he was supposed to say something, as they all stared at him. He concentrated on breathing, on keeping his posture calm.

Memories could be unreliable, the truth could be flawed - Hermione told him this. It was why these cases could be so difficult. He could say Voldemort put him under the Imperius Curse, but some people already knew he could resist it.

Should he lie again? What if they whipped out the Veritaserum anyway?

If he lied, and they caught him at it, he would be truly screwed. Beyond help.  
If he lied, and they didn't catch him, he would be fine. Telling the truth had him pretty much screwed either way, right?

The article meant he would probably be able to keep his wand, but Harry didn't particularly want to be committed or forced to attend therapy sessions.

"Not guilty," Harry said. "Voldemort used my wand to cast the curse."

Nearly everyone in the room flinched, though Scrimgeour didn't. "Do you have any proof?" the head auror asked.

"None that can be taken –" what had Hermione said? – "objectively." Harry wetted his lips. "I have my memories, I can describe what it feels like to be under the curse. If you wanted, I could submit to Veritaserum."

He hoped offering would make sure they didn't call his bluff. He hoped that, even if they suspected more had happened, that they wouldn't want to.

They studied him closely.

"And there were no witnesses?" Fudge asked. "During a crowded battle?"

"I chased Bellatrix Lestrange away from the battle," Harry said. "She just killed my godfather."

"So you have motive," Thicknesse said. "What did you intend to do with Mrs Lestrange when you caught up with her?"

Harry's shoulders tensed. "I didn't do anything to her – Voldemort turned up before I could."

"But hypothetically?" Thicknesse raised a brow.

"I'm not on trial for the hypothetical," Harry said. "I didn't do anything wrong."

"Hem, hem. So you say." Umbridge cleared her throat. "But unfortunately, nobody was around to prove it. Minister, if I may …" Umbridge leaned in with a saccharine smile towards Fudge. "He has a proven record –"

"Objection. Mr Potter was cleared of all charges; that is irrelevant," someone said.

Umbridge's smile tightened. "From my own experiences teaching the boy, I would need further character reference to believe he did not do this. His reluctance to tell us his plans for Mrs Lestrange is telling."

Red descended over Harry's eyes as he looked at her. His wand was a heavy weight in his pocket, and her face an ideal target for proving exactly what he was capable of.

"I have plenty of people who can vouch that I would never do something like that," Harry said. He couldn't grit his teeth, or glare. "Contact my teachers at Hogwarts –"

"We tried to get in contact with your relatives," Umbridge said. "To notify them of this serious accusation, as their right to know as your only living guardians. They were nowhere to be found."

"There's a war going on, and Voldemort has already made it clear that anyone who knows me has a target painted on their back!" Harry snapped, before he could stop himself. "Or perhaps you missed the massacre of my home and everyone in my neighborhood?"

"There must have been a reason the Dark Lord chose not to kill you," she said. "If you were defenseless and he had your wand."

"You're suggesting I planned for them to be attacked so they couldn't testify?" No one would believe that, right? It was mad! "I didn't even know I was on trial for anything when it happened. Maybe you should ask him why he didn't kill me, though I reckon Dumbledore turning up had something to do with it. I wouldn't tell lies, would I?"

He was so tempted to start making the noise of hooves on the ground with his tongue. Some members of the jury were glancing between them, so it was probably best not to. Her lips pinched, some colour draining from her face.

Thicknesse cleared his throat. "Those in favour of clearing the accused of all charges?"

Harry held his breath, flashed deja-vu as he tried to count.

"And those in favour of conviction, and moving on to decide and try an appropriate sentence pending further investigation?"

The world spun. Head pounding, dizzy. He felt like the floor would drop out from beneath him.

"Cleared of all charges," Thicknesse said.

Harry exhaled, rising from the chair. Stuffing his shaking hands in his pocket.

The jury members talked among each other, starting to rise too. Scrimgeour and Fudge looked about to make a beeline for him and –

Harry's head throbbed, eyes snapping round.

One of the jury members shot a Dark Mark up into the air.

The hall erupted in chaos, shouts of panic, and the crack of apparation and of spells and wands flying – before everyone froze. Harry stiffened at the way all the Wizengamot stared in his direction, dark hooded figures filling every corner of the room with their wands pointed at the ministry officials.

Unease prickled up Harry's spine at the terror in their eyes.

He turned, slowly, heart jumping in his mouth, wand clenched in his hand.

"Hello, Harry." Voldemort stood, in pale flesh, behind him. "You're looking well, my treasure. Or should I say my Chosen One?"

_Fuck._


	9. Chapter 9

For a horrifying second, Harry couldn't move.

Frozen, staring at Voldemort, mind racing through the possibilities - that awful cage from his dreams, the fact Voldemort could prove he'd just lied through his whole trial, the way everyone in this room could end up dead if they weren't careful.

He swallowed, hard - stumbled back a step, pointing his wand at the Dark Wizard.

A smile crossed Voldemort's lips, and the Dark Lord's head tilted in that reptilian manner of his as he studied Harry. "Nothing to say?" Voldemort glided forward, seemingly unconcerned by Harry pointing a wand at him, or any potential threat in his surroundings. "My, Harry. You are far more bold in your nightmares than you are in real life."

"What the hell are you doing here?"  
That probably shouldn't have been Harry's first comment - too familiar.

Voldemort's smile broadened, but he turned his scarlet gaze to the jury. Dissecting the flash of Scrimgeour's eyes, Fudge pasty-faced about to faint, Percy petrified in fear. The entire courtroom descended into a sickly terror that smothered every inch and crevice, difficult to breathe through.

"How afraid, how desperate, you and the rest of the Wizarding World must be, to rely so heavily on a child criminal to save you," the Dark Lord murmured. "You all know the boy is guilty, I can see it in your eyes."

Harry's stomach dropped.

"Give him to me," Voldemort said.

"Never!"

Harry's eyes widened at the voice.

Percy Weasley stood from where he'd been sitting, skin tinged clammy and hands trembling around his pointed wand so hard it was a wonder he could aim at all. Shoulders squared, and chin jutted up in defiance.

Voldemort's head tilted the other way, eyes narrowing. "A Weasley? How touching. Cruc-"

Harry took several steps to stand between them, heart swollen three times the size or so it felt. Pounding so hard he could barely hear anything else. "Don't." He held Voldemort's gaze. "You don't hurt any of them."

All he wanted to do was run, to bolt - to not run the risk of facing the eternal prison from his dreams. His feet stayed rooted to the spot, trying to use his body to shield Percy as much as possible.

Voldemort's smile only broadened, his gaze roving over the Wizengamot. His eyes remained utterly cold. "Give me Harry Potter, and no blood needs to be spilled today. Deny me what is mine again, and you will die screaming."

"So you did want us to send the boy to Azkaban," Scrimgeour said - smiling, to Harry's shock. "Aye, we thought so."

We?

The doors burst open.

Dumbledore stood tall and unshaken, wand in hand, no twinkle in his eyes. Behind him, stood a dozen Aurors and Order members.

The Death Eaters were now outnumbered.

Voldemort's expression flickered.

Harry nearly sagged in relief in turn, with the mere chance that maybe this would turn out okay now. The edge that seeped into Voldemort's eyes wiped the hope away.

"The Anti-Apparation Wards are up, Tom," Dumbledore said. "You have nowhere to go. Harry, back away from him, please."

"If you move," Voldemort said to him, eyes still fixed on Dumbledore, "I will kill Weasley in the most excruciating manner possible, and you know this will happen again. And again. And again, until there is no one left to shield you. We both know how this will end, don't we, Harry?"

"Harry," Dumbledore's voice sharpened. "Now."

Harry's gut seized.

One of Voldemort's hands plunged into his pocket.

Harry wouldn't have been able to say who attacked first, but in the next second people scattered this way and that, spells flashed, and seared, and Percy crumpled near Harry's feet - screaming, blood bubbling from the corner of his mouth.

Screaming and hurt for trying to protect him.

Harry lunged to haul him up, wrapping Percy's arm around his shoulders. Unable to stop picturing the look on the Weasley's faces if one of their own died, especially when things hadn't been resolved between them.

He hastily shot up a shield charm, staggering forward - barely able to see in the chaos.

Bodies arced on every side, and with every twist Harry saw Sirius again. Saw the light fade from his eyes and many others, as blood stained sticky beneath his shoes and howls and incantation filled the room in equal measure.

"Seize the boy!" Voldemort's voice cut through the madness.

Every Death Eater in the vicinity seemed to converge on him, and suddenly Harry was painfully aware of Voldemort behind him. Nearly in touching distance. And if they touched...well, Harry didn't know what would happen, but he wasn't going to assume anything good.

The defense converged on him too, as if to form a protective barrier.

Many members of the Wizengamot were dead or vanished elsewhere - portkeys, maybe? - leaving the Death Eaters versus the Aurors and the Order.

Too many people Harry knew, too many targets for Voldemort to hurt him with. Too many people risking their lives because of him.

Like Sirius had.

His scar burst with pain, black spots popping in his vision. It was beyond endurance, pain beyond hope. His knees buckled, but he barely felt himself hit the floor.

He heard people scream his name like something distant, underwater.

All he knew was the fire in his head, the urge to sink into warmth and comfort instead, to inch closer to the Dark Lord. He could feel Voldemort's magic on every side, in his lungs and his nose and in each panting breath.

Percy wheezed next to him, eyes unseeing, a sheen of sweat on his skin. Barely clinging to his life - veins starting to protrude purple.

Another defender – Dawlish – dropped dead to the floor.

The remaining Death Eaters swarmed Dumbledore, casting curses from every side as the elderly Headmaster whipped this way and that distractedly.

Harry's wand spun on its own accord as Voldemort seized hold of his hair, tugging at the roots as he hauled him up onto his knees. Spidery fingers plunged into the Dark Lord's pocket again. The spell erupted light from Harry's wand.

Harry felt the portkey jerk at his hips.

The courtroom vanished from sight.

* * *

Harry hit the ground hard, all the breath knocked out of his lungs.

The pain in his head turned to a pleased rush of warmth, and he bit back a moan. Scrambled to orient himself and - the warmth turned to pain again.

He took one look at Voldemort, at the surprise on the Dark Lord's face, before bolting.

Scrambling to his feet and sprinting as fast as he could in the opposite direction, dodging the spells that seared after him. Narrowly missing his ear, grazing his rib and sending him to the ground.

He leapt to his feet and hurtled forwards again in a heartbeat.

He pushed himself harder, bile in his throat.

Glanced behind him to see the Dark Lord chasing after him - and maybe in different circumstances, the sight would be funny.

He pushed himself onwards through through the...trees? Where the hell was he?  
That didn't matter right now.

His rib ached where the spell scratched him, and he barely swerved another that nearly smashed into his hip.

Vines and undergrowth twisted up to meet him, barely visible in the impossible gloom. He jumped them, heart hammering.

He remembered the Invisibility Cloak Dumbledore had him carry, and fumbled to get it out as he sprinted around another corner.

"Crucio!" Harry yelled, tossing the curse carelessly over his shoulder. Just needing some time, and god, a stunner would be deflected in a heartbeat.

He hurtled another tree, threw himself to the ground and into some crevice of a hiding place, flattening himself and wrapping the cloak over himself in the few seconds he had on Voldemort. He clamped a hand over his mouth to muffle any sound, resisting the urge to squeeze his eyes shut.

Voldemort slowed as he rounded the corner, bloody gaze sweeping over him and the surrounding area, but seeing nothing.

Harry prayed to whatever fate there could possibly be, holding his breath, eyes wide.

"Oh, Harry," Voldemort near crooned, breathless. Eyes aglow with unparalleled menace, a madness that Harry couldn't help but note didn't tend to be there in their shared dreams. "Are we playing hide and seek?"

Voldemort's steps moved soundless through the forest, nostrils flaring as if he could scent him out. "I know you're here, my treasure. I can feel you. Feel your frightened little mind in the corners of my own."

He'd been here before, there was something familiar to his surroundings. But what?

Harry slammed his eyes shut, so that he couldn't give out any clues if Voldemort invaded his mind. Hopefully he wouldn't cry out - though as the pain built in his head again he couldn't be sure if he wouldn't.

"Won't you face me this time, Harry?" Voldemort asked.

Harry bit his tongue in an effort not to comment.

The seconds stretched, and Harry tried to figure out what had happened. What that light had been - judging by Voldemort's shock, this wasn't where the portkey was supposed to take them.

A forest. Why would they end up in a forest?

"Accio Invisibility Cloak." Voldemort sounded significantly less amused now.

Harry clung to the cloak desperately, expecting it to wrench out of his hands and reveal him and...nothing. It didn't even twitch under the spell.

Voldemort begun to fling crucios in every direction - one narrowly missed Harry's hiding place, half beneath the roots of an ancient tree.

Ants and spiders crawled over his hands, and along his arms, but he dared not move.

A lot of spiders, actually...was he? No. He couldn't be?

"You dare come here, Tom Riddle?" the voice rumbled.

Aragog.

Harry cracked open an eye despite himself.

Voldemort turned to face the huge spider looming towards them. It wasn't the centre of the colony, but Harry knew now why he recognized something of his surroundings, however vaguely.

He was in the Forbidden Forest.

Spiders clicked on every side, beginning to form a circle around Voldemort.

Harry hoped Aragog and his children bloody ate him.

"Potter," Voldemort said. "You do not realize the danger you are in. They will eat you as eagerly as they will me - these are Acromantula. The most dangerous spiders in existence. Come with me."

Shit.

If last time was anything to go by, that was probably true.

What were the chances a Ford Anglia would rescue him again?

How much worse would being eaten alive be compared to being Voldemort's prisoner?  
Voldemort was currently trying to save him, he at least had a better chance of surviving Voldemort…

But, if he could escape...he was near Hogwarts. He'd be safe there. That must be what the golden spell did.

"You have three seconds," Voldemort said, speaking faster now. "Harry, do not be foolish. You have seen the comforts I can offer you."  
And the torment.

"Three...two…" Harry itched to reach out. But if he died, then that was a Horcrux down, wasn't it? And it proved something if Voldemort just left him here. "One." 

Voldemort vanished as the spider's overwhelmed his position.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief, before remembering he was still surrounded by man-eating spiders who'd shown a liking to his flesh before.

Spiders with incredibly dangerous venom. Spiders currently crawling all over him.

Harry shot to his feet, shaking them off - immediately stared down by millions of eyes on every side. He tried for a smile. "Um...thank you? I'm so sorry for intruding."

"You are Hagrid's friend," Aragog said.

He looked older, more tired, than when Harry had last seen him.

His wretched children looked as bloodthirsty as ever.

Harry swallowed. "Yes. Harry Potter," he introduced himself, this time.

"Harry...Potter?" Aragog's eyes seemed to pierce straight through. "You smell like the Riddle boy," Aragog said. "Reek of him, who ruined Hagrid. Even more than you did before."

Harry's insides twisted again.

"Voldemort - the Riddle boy - ruined my life too," he said. "I want him dead." He took a breath to steel himself, taking a tentative step forward. "You do too, don't you?"

"He did not seem to like you," Aragog said. "But I do not deny my children fresh meat, and he is gone."

The spiders crawled closer to him, pincers clicking louder.

"WAIT! Wait," Harry held his hands up, desperately, cloak still curled around his shoulders. He wetted his lips. "They say I can stop him. That I'm the only one who can. You want revenge, so do I. We're on the same side!"

"He called you his treasure."

"And I chose not to go with him despite knowing you might kill me!"

Aragog clicked, and the spiders paused their advance. "You do not ever come here again. Friend of Hagrid."

"I won't! I didn't mean to intrude. Thank you. Um...sorry, which direction is the castle?" 

* * *

The trip exhausted him. Battered and bruised and clutching his wand and his cloak for protection, Harry stumbled his way out of the forbidden forest and into Hogwart's welcoming wards.

Had that been what happened? His mind leapt to the safety of Hogwarts...and they ended up outside the wards in the Forbidden Forest, instead?

He collapsed on the steps of the castle, with a mental prayer that someone would find him.

Air raid sirens screamed in his ears.


	10. Chapter 10

Harry couldn't remember the last time he'd been pulled into Voldemort's mind, in a context aside of their dreams.

The air-raid sirens screamed deafening in the Dark Lord's mindscape, bleeding into his own.

London, war-torn and crumbling into darkness, with the skies alight.

Voldemort, somewhere fancy, ravaging through a chest of drawers as he clutched several objects close as his snake coiled protectively over trembling shoulders. _Cup safe - ring gone, glinting sickening on the old man's finger...Locket lost...Diadem hidden beyond reach... Diary destroyed -_

Harry sucked in sharp breaths, cold stone pressed against his cheek. Dizzy from lurching between Voldemort's subconscious, Voldemort's external present, and his own. Nausea climbed up his throat.

Bombs fell on the city, and a boy cowered in the dark, awaiting death.

Harry couldn't find footing, streets fell away into the abyss of the Dark Lord's terror. He felt under spotlight, under flame, as Voldemort's thoughts speared him.

_The boy, missing too...lost even…_

Harry clamped his hands over his ears, writhing against the castle steps. Panting for breath. Gripped by alien fears - a greedy, grasping concern that smothered every inch of his body.

His scar felt ablaze.

And still the bombs fell on Voldemort's London.

Harry didn't think, thinking was impossible through the haze of Voldemort's mind.  
"I'm here! I'm fine!" He wasn't sure if he screamed the words, or pushed them through their link in some capacity.

Voldemort didn't seem aware of Harry drowning in mad subconsciousness, of the streets ruined and sliding into a gaping abyss at odds with real memory.

"I'm fine-I'm alive - I'm alive - you're fine-" Harry's mantra continued. Anything to reassure Voldemort, to make it stop...

Footsteps thudded closer to him, or maybe it was simply his own heartbeat. He could barely see, barely breathing as terror rushed through his blood.

Large arms scooped him up and cradled him close. A familiar face loomed blurry in his vision.

_Hagrid._

The sirens faded in his ears as a rush of affection surged through his chest, and Voldemort seemed to become aware of him in some manner. The pain spiked, before that warmth bathed him.

Impossible warmth, perfect completeness.

Exhausted, Harry let himself sink into it and Hagrid's chest.

* * *

"He's waking up!"

Harry groaned at the loud noise, eyes feeling sticky as he peeled them open. A remnant headache throbbed beneath his scar.

He struggled to sort out everything that had happened, the flashes of Voldemort's thoughts...the cup the...the horcruxes. Oh god.

"Harry, thank goodness you're okay!" Hermione took that moment to crush him in a hug, her hair tickling his nose and engulfing him in the scent of lavender shampoo.

Her eyes were red-rimmed with tears, and Ron behind her looked like all the colour had left him.

Harry managed a shaky smile. "Cleared of all charges, by the way."

"We thought Voldemort took you! Everyone was talking about what happened at the trial and about-" her breath hitched.

Ron rubbed her back.

They both looked sick.

He was resting in the Burrow again, on the bed in Fred and George's room. Voices clammered just outside the door, punctuated with hissed whispers.

Ron and Hermione didn't look anywhere near as relieved as he'd expected.

"What happened? How did I get here?" Harry's stomach plummeted. "Did Percy make it?"

The look on Ron's face told him everything. Harry's fists clenched over the duvet, and he struggled to sit up.

First his parents, then Sirius, now Percy...how many people would die protecting him from Voldemort? How many people would be slaughtered for the collateral like the residents of Little Whinging?

Harry shuddered.

"It's not your fault," Ron mumbled. "You didn't cast that curse. And, uh, Hagrid brought you here. You'll have to tell us how you got to Hogwarts though." His best friend sounded dead.

"Harry…" Hermione sat down on his bed, taking hold of his hand and gently unfurling his fingers where they dug bloody into his skin.

"There's more?" Of course there were more. He'd been at that battle, seen the bloodshed on both sides. "Did Lupin make it?"

She nodded.

Well, that was something at least.

"Is Umbridge dead? Which Death Eaters?" he asked.

"I - we don't know - things are still getting sorted out. A lot of the Wizengamot used private portkeys to get out," Hermione said. "Umbridge was probably...one of them."

Harry's eyes flashed. Of course, he didn't want more people dead but...portkeys could take so many more than one person. How many people could they have helped save when they were injured, if they stayed?

Would Percy have survived if he got help earlier?

Hermione squeezed his hand, studying him closely. "Harry…" she began again. This time, Harry stayed stayed silent, couldn't speak through the knot in his throat. Trying to think who it could possibly be, and what bombshell would drop on his world next. "It's Dumbledore."

Everything stopped. He must have misheard.  
"_No_," he said. "No, I thought you said Dumbledore."

Her hand tightened on his, and Ron shifted on his feet, staring at the floor.

"No," Harry whispered, shaking his head. "He can't have - he's Dumbledore!"

"Apparently Voldemort at least...anticipated the possibility that he'd be there. The Death Eaters swarmed him when he stayed to...to make sure everyone else could get out."

Harry couldn't breathe. His head spun, a strange ringing in his ears. "But he's Dumbledore…"

Dumbledore didn't die! He couldn't. Without him...without him, what did they have? He'd been supposed to have those lessons, and now...now Voldemort was immortal and Dumbledore was dead.

Horror creeped up his spine.

"I'm sorry," Hermione said, tears spilling over her eyes again. "I know you were close."

"I need to find Voldemort. And I need you to do something for me." The words blurted out.

For a second, they just stared at him. "What?"

"No," Ron growled. "You can't. Are you crazy?"

"Listen to me-" Harry held his hands up.

"No!" Hermione said. "We're not going to let you just up and sacrifice yourself when-"

"-Voldemort's currently immortal."

That shut them up. The silence rang.

Harry spent the next five minutes telling them about Horcruxes - at which point everyone else started coming in, so he had to divert.

But the plan formed slowly, crystallizing more and more with every second that passed.

With the connection between him and Voldemort, anyone around him was at risk. Not in the least because of how easily the Dark Lord would be able to find him, if it continued to grow in power.

He couldn't go hunting for Horcruxes, however much he wished he could. The...the ring that was lost, on Dumbledore's hand. The Diary was destroyed. Voldemort had thought about that tiara being hidden somewhere he couldn't just get it and the locket had been lost…

A locket Harry could have sworn he'd seen somewhere before. His brow furrowed.

But Voldemort had the rest of them. Whatever they exactly were. That made...how many even were there? He wasn't sure? At least seven, from what he'd got from Voldemort's head.

Harry swallowed.

And Voldemort would kill anyone but him who got close.

At least he wasn't going to Azkaban?

* * *

The whole house seemed heavier that night - dinner a broken sort of affair, devoid of the type of cheer normally found at the Weasley's table.

Charlie had been contacted, and the rest of the Weasleys barely ate.

Harry couldn't stomach much either. Guilt squirmed in his belly, no matter how many people went to the trouble of telling him that it wasn't his fault.

Maybe it wasn't, maybe it was, but none of it made it better either way.

Harry half wished he was still unconscious, enveloped in warmth where he didn't have to feel like he'd been flayed open.

Almost unfortunately, he didn't think there was any chance he would sleep that night - regardless of how exhausted he felt.

"You mentioned a plan," Ron said, when they all crowded into his room again, late that night.

Harry rubbed a hand through his hair, and tried not to think how long it might be until he next saw them, when he left.

All he'd have would be Voldemort, because he was pretty sure the Dark Lord had no intention of sharing him with anyone else in any significant manner.

"Yeah," he said. "After I escaped Voldemort, I had a vision." He ignored their skeptical looks, even as pain lanced through his ribs for the reason. "It's not like with Si-with him." Harry's fists clenched in his lap again. "The connection's been getting stronger for a while. It was about the Horcruxes. He thought I'd die so he immediately went to check on the rest of them….reflex paranoia, I reckon."

Voldemort's need to check on his immortality, and let them comfort him in his panic.

"So you know what they are?" Ron's head tilted. "Handy."

"He has most of them with him," Harry said. "Which is why I need to find him. He won't...kill me, which gives me a chance to try and well...get to them. Infiltrate."

"Or he would lock you up somewhere and you'd never see the light of day again," Hermione said.

Harry glared at her, far too aware of that possibility. Insides twisting. "Do we have a better idea? It's not like we can waltz up to him last minute. Dumbledore's dead, how long do you reckon it's really going to be until everything goes to hell? We need to act fast!

"Wouldn't he know the second you went up to him, what you want?" Hermione shot back.

Harry deflated. "I'm...working on it. I won't go yet." Dumbledore and Percy's funerals were first, anyway. And he had no good way to get to Voldemort, whilst all the wards remained on the Burrow.

But how many of those were cast by a dead man? The Weasleys would be safer if he moved somewhere else. "We could use Grimmauld Place," he continued. "All of us. Sirius left it to me, so…so we should be able to work something out."

"And it's easier for you to run off from," Ron said. "I still don't know about this…"

"There were some that Voldemort didn't have." Harry lowered his voice, leaning in. "I didn't see for long. But two are destroyed, and another two are...he doesn't have them. There's like this - this tiara, though he called it something else. It had blue stones on it. It was surrounded by lots old things when he thought of it. And a Locket...I saw a cave, but I don't know. I think I've seen the locket somewhere before though. It was gold."

"Outside of Voldemort's head, y'mean?"

"Yeah," Harry said.

They were both silent for a moment.  
"That's not a lot to go on," Hermione said, biting her lip.

"I know." Harry sighed, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. "But it's something, isn't it?" He hated how desperate his voice sounded, cracked and hoarse around the edges.

But it couldn't all be for nothing.

"Yeah," they said. "It's something."

And Harry needed to get his Occlumency up to scratch before time ran out.

* * *

Harry fell asleep to the cupboard twenty four hours later.

Voldemort looked sickeningly triumphant in the face of his victory over Dumbledore - regardless of how many of his Death Eaters he'd lost in the process.

Even the sight of Voldemort made his blood boil, Percy's face searing behind Harry's eyeballs. He kept his expression blank as the Dark Lord surveyed him.

"Despite having escaped me and a veritable army of Acromantula, you still seem rather trapped, Harry," Voldemort said.

Harry inhaled dust and watched one of the cupboard spiders forming a web in the corner.

Right then, Voldemort's room design would have been better than here. He drew his knees closer to his chest, and picked up one of the broken toy soldiers, twirling it between his fingers just for something to do with his hands. He concentrated on keeping his breathing calm.

He'd forgotten how much under the stairs smelt like mildew.

"The silent treatment? How inspired. I suppose you're grieving the loss of the old man," Voldemort said.

Harry glanced over, still no expression on his face. "As opposed to being a five year old child again, remembering the Blitz?"

Voldemort flinched and nothing had ever given Harry as much satisfaction in his life. Except maybe crucioing the bastard.

"You know nothing," the Dark Lord hissed.

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. It sounded hollow still. "I know even Lord Voldemort gets scared. You're bloody terrified of dying, aren't you?"

It was as close as he could probably get to talking about Horcruxes, without talking about Horcruxes. And it was in some way reassuring that even Voldemort didn't seem invincible and unaffected by all things.

"Everyone fears death," Voldemort said, lips tightening. "Except, apparently, you. Considering your proclivities for danger and all lack of self preservation when it comes to staying with a colony of flesh-eating spiders."

Harry thought fast, mouth dry. "Why would I fear death, when you keep sending everyone I love to the other side?" If the reaction to losing him as a potential Horcrux was anything to go by…

Yup. Voldemort went rigid.

Harry had to watch carefully, but it was there. Spidery fingers clenched together so hard Harry would imagine that on a normal hand the knuckles would bleach white, but Voldemort had no colour to lose in his skin.

Maybe Harry could burn him like a vampire or something. He'd admittedly never seen the Dark Lord in direct sunlight.

"You wouldn't dare," Voldemort said, eyes narrowed. "You'd never leave your precious friends to save themselves from me like that."

"Put me in that box for all eternity and we'd find out," Harry said.

If he could somehow get Voldemort not to do that, plant seeds for why he shouldn't...maybe, just maybe, he'd be okay and be able to do this.

Dumbledore's funeral was tomorrow.


	11. Chapter 11

The last time Harry had seen so many witches and wizards in one place, it had been for the Quidditch World Cup.

The sun shone obscenely bright across the Hogwarts grounds.

People kept talking about Dumbledore being gone, but the numbness stretched for great periods of time. It was only late at night, or when he'd just woken up from one of his shared dreams, that the breath clogged in his throat and the feeling overwhelmed him.

He wondered if this was what drowning felt like.

He hadn't seen the body. He'd never even attended a funeral before.

Maybe it was another trick, somehow, if he hadn't seen the body.

None of it felt real.

Harry recognized only a fraction of the people in attendance, among the hundreds of chairs that were set out before the lake. Students from school, the faculty, members of the DA, members of the Order of the Phoenix…the barman of the Hogshead, the trolley witch, the ghosts...

Hermione squeezed his hand.  
His ears rang.

How many people would still be alive if they stopped trying to protect him? Would Dumbledore still be, if Harry had been stronger? Cleverer? Because if Dumbledore couldn't shield him, hadn't been invincible to Voldemort and his Death Eaters, what chance did Harry or anyone else have?

The service washed in and out of his ears, meaningless words floating down to him on the sticky summer breeze. His gut churned.

Scrimgeour - freshly appointed the Minister of Magic due to popular demand - made a beeline for him the second the funeral ended. The ex-Auror offered no chance to flee, lunging for Harry's company like a great cat pouncing on the throat of its prey.

Everyone snuck glances at them.

"My condolences for your loss, Harry." Scrimgeour studied him. "I know you were very close with Albus Dumbledore. He was a great man, his loss is a terrible tragedy."

Harry's nails dug into his palms as he surveyed the man. He struggled to swallow his instinctive response, along with the bile, shoulders tensed.

Sound seemed to come to him like being underwater, muffled, distorted and far far away.

"Inspiring man," Scrimgeour added, when Harry said nothing. "There's nothing more powerful than inspiration, is there? Moral. Hope."

Harry's eyes narrowed.

"Perhaps I could walk with you back to the castle for the reception," Scrimgeour said.

Harry started walking without comment, and Scrimgeour fell limping into step.

The closer Harry got to the castle, the more muzzy his head felt. The more disconnected he felt from his bones, when really he should have felt at home. Hogwarts had always been a home, to him. He struggled to tune back into what Scrimgeour was saying.

He could hear his heartbeat throbbing in his ears, nearly deafening.

"-I would be happy, of course, to place a couple of my Aurors at your service." Yellow eyes hadn't left him for a second.

Harry didn't mean to laugh. The sound caught in his chest anyway, as he shook his head. "Aurors won't stop him. Voldemort would slaughter them."

Scrimgeour halted outside the entrance, grasping Harry's arm and pulling him out of the way of people entering the castle. "Much like Dumbledore, you also have a lot of power to...inspire people, Harry. Especially after that interview you released."

"And what does the Ministry want me to inspire?" Harry's lips twitched, finally seeing where this was going, blood beginning to boil. "Considering you just had me on trial for casting a Cruciatus Curse."

"The trial was a tactical decision," Scrimgeour's voice tightened.

"And it worked so well didn't it."

Scrimgeour exhaled a breath. "The Ministry is in turmoil, the public are in turmoil. It is of great importance in times of war to present a unified front."

Oh. _Oh. _

"You are not alone in this, Harry."

"I know." Though perhaps not in the most comforting of ways, like the Minister thought. "I'm never alone." Voldemort was always there with him, in some way, wasn't he?

Alone would have been better.

"That's the spirit, my dear boy." Scrimgeour squeezed his shoulder. "So…"

"So maybe if the Ministry wants to inspire some faith in its people, it should actually do a good job and help them," Harry said. "I can't help you, even if I wanted to."

A vein popped in Scrimgeour's forehead. "You _can't _help? And why is that, Mr Potter?"

Anyone he asked for help would have a target painted on their back, Dumbledore's death - _Percy _crumpling in agony in front of him - made that abundantly clear. And Voldemort knew too well how to hit where it hurt.

He couldn't involve more people than he already. The more people placed their faith in him, the more they would sacrifice for him when he would be dead before this war was won either way. The more Voldemort would hurt them for their hope.

He looked away from the Minister, throat tighter than ever. "If you trust that someone else will always save you, you don't do anywhere near enough to save yourself." He thought Dumbledore would be there, all the way to the end. He never even imagined...Harry shook his head. He should have done more, studied more, trained more..."Most people won't fight until they have to." He met Scrimgeour's eyes. "Maybe it's not a bad thing to let them think they have to."

* * *

Harry's feet echoed along the empty castle corridors.

In the Great Hall, mourners made memorial speeches with an air of goodbye - as if they didn't expect to see everyone again any time soon.

Heartbeats pounded louder in his head than ever. Chest aching, tugging, yearning coiling in the base of his spine.

He found himself in the room of lost things, and maybe that seemed appropriate for a funeral day. He skimmed his fingers over the dusty objects; some abandoned, some cherished and gone missing.

He moved through the rows of discarded treasures, not even sure what he was looking for, if anything. It was peaceful here, quiet in comparison to the world outside and everything that waited for him.

The heartbeat in his head vanished as he traced his things over a delicate, blue-jewelled tiara.

The stillness thickened, more eerie now, but still somehow peaceful. Harry's mouth drained dry. He picked up the tiara, turning it over and over in his hands.

What would happen to all of these things, to Hogwarts, now that Dumbledore was gone? There was no way Voldemort would leave the school alone. He loved Hogwarts as much as Harry did, from the few glimpses and snatches that he'd gotten.

Would this be his last time in the beloved castle?

Hogwarts in the hands of Voldemort seemed an equally unbearable thing. Harry's fingers tightened on the fragile silver, eyes squeezing shut. How could he do anything to stop it? What good was he at anything – he'd already got people killed, Voldemort had resurrected on his blood and Harry's life sustained him now.

He could only stall his plan and hide from the Dark Lord for so long, now. He'd thought he'd have all summer, at least, to learn as much as he could, but with Dumbledore gone…

_For neither can live while the other survives…_what a joke.

Harry tossed the tiara away from him as hard as he could, towards a shelf where it would shatter. Just something else lost.

What right did Voldemort have to take another home away from him? To have anyone else?

The hatred boiled through him anew, tearing through the numbness that weighed his limbs down like stones. Hate surged through him like oxygen on flames, and raw lungfuls of air when the whole world had gone up in smoke.

He could see why Voldemort liked it so much.

His head cleared and…his head cleared. He stared down again at the tiara, unbroken on the floor as want perched beneath Harry's tongue. Licked up his chest. His brow furrowed.

Voldemort had said one of his Horcruxes was missing, and that another one was beyond his reach. What places in the world were beyond Voldemort's poison?

Dumbledore had said Voldemort would never pick just anything to be his Horcrux. He liked old things and things with history, powerful things, pretty things coveted by others.

He moved over to the tiara again.

Harry had to close his eyes with how much he wanted – the last time need ached so, he'd been eleven years old staring at the impossible reflections of his mum and dad in the Mirror of Erised.

But this wasn't his need.

"Voldemort is never satisfied," a familiar voice said. "He is always looking for something more. More power, more control, more knowledge….have you ever wondered why, Harry Potter?"

And everything sunk into blackness.

* * *

Harry had no idea how long he'd been unconscious.

He awoke on the floor of the room of requirement, scar prickling, head throbbing from where he'd hit the floor.

The tiara glittered inches away from his face – the largest sapphire splintered, but not broken.

He swallowed hard, wiping his clammy hands down on his dress robes and sitting up. What had just happened? It was obviously something to do with the Horcrux…

The voice in his ear, rich as velvet and cold as marble. Tom Riddle's voice, Voldemort's voice, and maybe not quite either. Somewhere in between.

The hate still simmered in his blood.

He looked around, eyes wild, for something that he could wrap the tiara up in seeing as he certainly wasn't using his invisibility cloak. Not quite daring to touch it again, not sure what exactly would happen if he did.

The room had changed around him.

Gone were the dusty and lost things, instead he was…in Borgin and Burkes. Dread plunged into Harry's stomach, as he shot to his feet, eyes wide. Maybe this was a trick. Maybe the room had simply changed into Borgin and Burkes…

How could he possibly be here instead of at Hogwarts!?  
Of course, Harry was starting to become uncomfortably aware of his new habit of sleep walking, considering the number of times he woke up outside of Fred and George's bedroom with someone staring down at him and blood on his face…

Dumbledore had said it was the Horcrux trying to connect with the rest of Voldemort's soul. Harry glared at the bloody tiara, biting back a curse.

Pickled things and dark objects surrounded him, but of course there wasn't a scarf he could wrap around a shard of the Dark Lord's soul. That would have just been too convenient.

He gathered up the hem of his robes, gaze darting around the – so far seeming mercifully empty – shop, and used it to scoop up the other Horcrux and tuck it into the pocket of his robes. The thin material would have to act as a shield for now.

Harry drew his wand, heart hammering in his chest, as he slunk towards the store entrance, and out into the street. He scrubbed his hair over his face as scar as he could, feeling utterly exposed.

Newspapers with his face on stared at him from across the street.

Harry swallowed hard and kept his head down, struggling to remember the way back to Diagon Alley that Hagrid had shown him, oh so long ago.

Surely someone would have reported him missing by now?  
But they probably wouldn't assume he was in bloody Knockturn Alley. Bile clawed up Harry's throat again.

Every glance in his direction seemed a death warrant.

Harry barely dodged a twisted-faced hag of a witch, shoving past him with a basket of what looked suspiciously like human bones.

Invisibility cloak. He should put the invisibility cloak on. Duck somewhere out the crowd – do it now.

He fumbled the material from his other pocket, skin prickling hot in fear of scrutiny, shoulders hunched. He finally managed to get it out, cursing the fact he hadn't bought another pair of fancy robes since the Triwizard tournament. For all Ron's jokes that Harry was a short-arse who never grew, the material squeezed tight now.

He breathed a sigh of relief, scouring his surroundings to make sure no one was paying him too much attention and-

And accidentally met Draco Malfoy's stare only ten feet away.

This day could not got better.

* * *

_A/N: If any of you are into NBC's Hannibal (if you're not, you should get into it) I am foraging further into Hannibal fandom, and have recently started a Hannibal fic called "Blood and Crumbs." It's got fairytales, if you like those too. Check it out if you're bored, I guess. Have a lovely day/night! I hope you enjoyed this chapter._


	12. Chapter 12

The moment seemed to last eternity.

Harry watched the colour drain from Malfoy's face, watched the resolve tighten his jaw and the desperation cut madness into his eyes within the space of a few seconds.

Harry felt his insides plunge cold, and his mind snap calm.

He could outrun Draco, right? He could pull on his cloak and disappear before Malfoy ever reached him. Bide his time, get the hell out of there. If Voldemort couldn't find him with the cloak on, Draco Malfoy definitely couldn't!

They lunged at the same time.

Harry had just managed to slip the cloak on, stepping to the side when Malfoy collided into him. Arm catching him in the ribs as he tried to dodge, the weight sending them both barrelling into the filthy street in a tangle of limbs.

His stomach lurched, head exposed now as the cloak caught between them, slippery in his fingers. Head exposed as they definitely drew attention now.

"Sorry Potter." The words panted hot into his ear, but Malfoy's fingers gripped him unforgivingly.

"Don't!"

He fired off a hex, that narrowly missed Malfoy's ear, hand slammed down. Breath knocked out as he kicked and clawed, scrambling to get away.

Another hand landed on his shoulder, squeezing tight.

The next second, his body squeezed through a thin straw - or so it felt - and Harry dropped to his knees, fighting down nausea. Apparation. God, he hated it.

His stomach rolled, head spinning.

Knockturn Alley had vanished, replaced by an opulent lobby.

Harry lurched to his feet, barely having time to start cursing before she had disarmed him.

Narcissa Malfoy caught his wand with no change in her expression. "Draco."

Draco scrambled to his feet, blond hair dishevelled and astray, face flushed. At odds with his immaculately dressed mother.

Harry's heart hammered in his chest, fists clenching.

"I must say, I never expected to see you in Knockturn Alley," Narcissa said. "Would you like something to help with your nausea?"

The invisibility cloak draped uselessly over one of his shoulders - what were the chances he could get out the manor? He could at least hide.

Voldemort would still know. There were no spiders to save him this time, the bastard could wait him out. And if he did, well...

"I can get you protection if you let me go," Harry concentrated on keeping his tone even. "You can't give me to Voldemort, you can't."

She didn't flinch at the name. Draco did, staring at his feet.

Beneath the make-up, and the expensive robes, close up, they both seemed tired. But Voldemort had never been the kindest to his followers, had he?

"You cannot even protect yourself," she said. Her eyes moved over her son, then back to him.

Harry tried to think, the nausea only growing. Of course, he'd been planning to face Voldemort eventually - but not now. Not before he could at least hope to keep the bastard out of his head, even if it was in the bluntest and most obvious of ways. Not before he'd prepared!

"You were a Black, right?" Harry squared his shoulders. "We're kind of family. Just let me go, just this once. You know what he's like, do you really want to deal with him for all of eternity? I'm your only chance of stopping him. For good."

Draco's eyes flickered. The Malfoy heir had always been pale, but now, out of the misleading gloom of Knockturn Alley, he looked sickly white.

He strained to read Narcissa's expression. For once, she didn't look like she had something bad under her nose.

"I am a Malfoy, now."

The damned tiara seemed to burn a hole in his pocket.

* * *

His mother did not seem...pleased, like he'd expected.

Draco's own stomach squirmed, however much he tried to squash the sensation down. Forget the rabid desperation on Potter's face, drained of all colour, as they left him secure in one of the rooms to await the Dark Lord's arrival. Forget the plea in those brilliant green eyes, and the way it ached in his chest.

He'd never seen Potter look like that before.

"Our family will be honoured again!" he burst out - when he could bear his mother's silence no longer. "I had to do it. He would never have forgiven us if we let Potter go." Nausea clawed up his throat.

"Yes, Draco." Her voice remained even, face impassive. "I'm sure the Dark Lord will be pleased with you."

Still, his gut twisted. He could only imagine the horrors Potter would face in the Dark Lord's hands, tortures and troubles that he wouldn't wish on anyone. He studied her, heart thumping in his chest.

"Father will be able to come home, too. He'll reward us for giving him Potter. He wants him more than anything."

This time, she said nothing at all. She just watched him for a moment. She didn't radiate disapproval, but she held her shoulders tight and her eyes were cool

Draco swallowed, hard. The mark on his left arm burned, throbbing more and more by the second.

The Dark Lord had been a frequent visitor to their household, both before and after his father's arrest. He'd thought it an stamp of pride, once, that the Dark Lord would want to use their manor to be his meeting point. Maybe it even had been, once.

The Dark Lord was not a forgiving man, even to those who served him.

And how would he be to the Boy-Who-Lived?

Draco shuddered, and tore his gaze away from his mother's, unable to hold her silent stare.

"Wait in your room unless you are summoned," she said, softly.

He wished he'd never seen Harry in the alley at all.

* * *

Voldemort would notice the tiara in his pocket, for sure. It was Horcrux, Harry was sure of that, if of nothing else that had happened.

He didn't have time to dwell on it now.

Could he hide the thing somewhere? Stash it under some cushions, anything? Give it to a houself? Maybe more of them would be like Dobby, and help him.

He couldn't risk it.

Harry paced up and down the small room like a tiger in a cage, fingers scrabbling at the walls, rattling the door handle - anything that might help. They'd taken his cloak and there was nowhere to hide.

A sofa, but he couldn't crawl beneath the space and he'd only look like a fool trying.

A snooty, mercury eyed Malfoy of old watched him from a painting on the wall, resistant to any of Harry's efforts of conversation.

The portrait would snitch on him, whatever he did. He didn't dare take the Horcrux out of his pocket, even to try and subtly stash it.

His hands trembled, despite his best efforts.

However bad the dreams had been, he could always wake up from them. Even if it felt like an eternity before he did. Voldemort could play his tricks, and his scar might hurt, but it was limiting on what Voldemort could do to him…

God, he wished this could be another nightmare.

Hermione would know what to do.

Pain throbbed up his foot as he kicked the door hard, breathing quick in his throat.  
"Fuck. Fuck." Could he get a message to the Order somehow?

There was nothing in this room, nothing!

Maybe he could attack when the door opened.

He ducked down, peering through the keyhole, mouth dry.

Each second that passed, the pressure in his forehead grew. Snatches of glee and longing, and a possessiveness that burned through him and seemed to devour his bones.

And closer, closer and closer and closer…

Harry dug his nails into his palms again to focus himself, letting the slight sting of it keep him from falling into the fragmented images and desires in Voldemort's head.

His muscles coiled as he stood to the side of the door at the unmistakeable sound of footsteps.

Should he try and make a break for it? Or pretend that this had been his plan all along? He had no idea what the Malfoys had told Voldemort. He had no idea if any facet of their deal could even stand either, after he'd run from Voldemort once before...

Harry wetted his lips.

He lunged the second the door opened, uncaring of if he was met with pain or warmth, so long as it proved enough of a distraction for his escape.

A flash of warmth jellied his knees, followed by pain. Voldemort hissed as Harry rammed an elbow into the skeletal body, shoving his way past blindly. He snatched for the yew wand, or any weapon that might come to mind, sinking his teeth into Voldemort's arm.

The grip on him recoiled.

Harry sprinted down the corridor, dodging curses.

Surely the Malfoy home was connected to the floo?

He managed a few metres when an invisible force tugged his ankle, sweeping his feet from beneath him. He hit the ground hard, air knocked from his lungs. He kicked automatically, twisting as he was tugged back along the floor, panting and flushed.

Voldemort stood over him, wand in hand, eyes shining like stained glass in the light. "Not this time, Harry."

* * *

The lovely room of their dreams had never seemed so horrifying in reality.

Harry's head spun from the Apparition, stomach protesting being forced to endure the sensation again.

He scrambled back the second Voldemort released his arm, holding the appendage protectively to his chest. Somehow, the Horcrux remained undisturbed in his pocket, nestled warmer than it should have been against his thigh.

His knees hit the large bed in his haste, and he nearly tumbled backwards.

Voldemort radiated contentment. A small smile played on his lipless mouth. He drank in the sight of Harry, watching his every move like the force of his scrutiny could leave Harry exposed and flay of his skin just for good measure.

The back of his neck prickled. Harry jutted his chin up, fists clenching once more, eyes darting around the room for any exit...or any sign of a box. "What are you going to do with me?"

Every second that passed without a crucio, only left him waiting for it more.

Voldemort practically glided towards him. Harry rounded the bed, circling to somehow keep distance between them. Even if they both knew that if Voldemort really wanted him close, Harry could do nothing. There was nowhere to go.

"Are you frightened, Harry Potter?" That smile mocked him.

The ground felt unsteady beneath Harry's feet, sheer force of will kept him standing. He came to a stubborn halt. "Of you? No!"

Voldemort laughed, reaching out a pale hand. Bony fingers caressed his cheek.

Harry wanted his wand back more than anything, or just something to defend himself with. He nearly squeezed his eyes shut, but refused to give the bastard the satisfaction.

"Such a brave, stubborn boy, you are. It won't help you now." The warmth filtered gently through him, like a summer breeze or the first slide into a hot bath.

Harry's shoulders sagged, despite himself, eyes wide.

Voldemort stepped closer still, tilting his head this way and that to examine him, wand tracing his temple. Harry examined Voldemort's throat, and the possibility of ripping the Dark Lord's heart out of his chest. If he had one.

His own felt fit to burst out of his chest, pounding deafeningly loud in his ears.

"You didn't answer my question," Harry managed. "Or don't you know?"

Nails dug into his 's smile vanished. "Don't ever keep Lord Voldemort waiting again."

Harry awoke to darkness and _screamed_.

* * *

_End Part One :) Hope y'all enjoyed it. And yeah, Part 2 will just continue on this same thread/story. I just split things mentally into segments. Thank you for everyone who has given me feedback so far. You guys are the best! x_


	13. Chapter 13

Voldemort spread his fingers across the one-way glass, halfway out the door.

Potter screamed beautifully.

It would have been tempting to keep the boy in the box, forever. Safe and sealed off from the world forever, a perfect trophy in a case just for him. No one else would even be able to look at him, let alone touch him or bring harm to what he carried.

Over the days, whenever he wasn't working, Voldemort grew into the habit of watching him. There had always been something mesmerizing about watching someone who were unaware of the scrutiny they were under, and Potter was no different. Maybe the sensation was even heightened.

Green eyes shone with terror, with hatred, with so many emotions that it remained both intoxicating and disturbing to look at. The boy felt _so much_, and all of it turned up on his face. Even without Legilimency, merely watching Potter seemed to be like rifling through his soul.

He could hide nothing and the fact was both revolting and reassuring.

Potter's friends, however, had disappeared off the face of the earth when he ordered to have them hunted down and brought to him. He'd struck quickly, on the day of Potter's disappearance before anyone could even suspect the boy of being gone.

His Death Eater's continued failure to locate two children -_ despite this_ \- boiled in his blood.

Potter's eyes seemed to snap to him, though they couldn't possibly see him.

Voldemort stilled, head tilting to one side.  
From behind his Occlumency shields, he could feel the background hum of Potter's distress - the mental equivalent of walking over shards of broken glass.

It had been just over a week now. His preparations had been finished long before he ever got the boy in his grasp, and he'd seen the boy's stubborn spirit splinter over the no doubt seemingly endless hours.

He could have let him out now - he'd only planned to have the boy in there for seven days, as he could hardly risk Potter becoming suicidal like he'd threatened.

He probably should let him out.

His smile broadened, as the boy shuddered. He continued on his business as Potter's gaze moved away.

* * *

Harry had no idea how many days it had been. He'd tried to keep track, but just like in the nightmare, nothing changed.

He clawed at Voldemort's mind, at the connection between them. Strained to reach him, whether through shared dreams or otherwise.

Nothing.

When he could take it no longer, exhaustion crumbling up his nerve endings, the cupboard formed around him.

For a moment, in the gloom, Harry thought he was still in the box.

He had never considered hating enclosed spaces before. He'd rather liked them, actually. The cupboard had been a prison, but it had been safe from Uncle Vernon's and Dudley's bulk too.

Nothing about the box felt safe. He felt like a plaything Voldemort had put aside until he wanted something to break.

Harry coughed in the dream-dust. Caught sight of scarlet eyes in the darkness, heard Uncle Vernon's footsteps already beginning to thump closer outside of the confines of this new nightmare.

His heart slammed, panic rising in his chest.

Trapped. _Trappedtrappedtrapped-_

He shoved against the door, every inch of him far-flung howling for escape. Magic tore through his veins.

And he promptly fell out onto grass, panting for breath.

Privet Drive was nowhere in sight, no beige carpets and off-white walls and Uncle Vernon.

The Hogwart's grounds stretched out in every direction. Sun warmed his cheeks, blue skies spreading infinite when he looked up.

"Fascinating." Voldemort's voice drifted unwelcome on the summer breeze.

Harry scrambled to his feet, whipping around, fists clenched.

Voldemort looked rather more comfortable intruding on Harry's mind and dreams than had ever been the case reversed. The Dark Lord had his hands slipped into the pockets of his silken robes, bare-footed as he stepped out the cupboard door, and into the light.

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Fascinating?"

"Quite," Voldemort murmured, without offering up an explanation.

"What's so bloody fascinating?"

Voldemort's head turned to him again, considering him, a strange cast to his eyes."This is not your normal dream."

"Well, considering I'm spending all day in a box-" Harry began, coldly.

"No." The Dark Lord's hand gestured across the peaceful grounds. "What do you see?"

The Quidditch Pitch stood in the distance, and a broom appeared ready and eager in Harry's hand.

Voldemort shook his head, and Harry could feel his eye roll, even if the Dark Lord considered the gesture beneath him. "Do you not see it?" the bastard persisted.

"See what?" Why did this one chance of a good dream have to be ruined by the Dark Lord's weirdness? Wasn't it enough that the bastard had made his every waking moment a living hell?

"People, in general, do not control their dreams," Voldemort said, an almost lecturing tone in his voice now. "Sometimes they may realize that they are dreaming, an exert a subconscious influence, but a dream cannot last long when one knows that they are dreaming. Such lucidity is a sign of waking up."

Harry didn't feel like he was waking up. "Why are you telling me this?"

Considering everything in their reality, the rigid block and box that confined him away from anything but himself and a few shallow breaths of air, why would Voldemort try and help him now? He obviously didn't feel particularly protective or fond, outside of keeping Harry alive for the Horcrux's sake.

"Look up at your sky."

Harry's brow furrowed, but his eyes rose unbidden, straining against the sunshine. Drifting over endless blue and the softness of clouds and-

"What the hell is that?" his stomach dropped.

The sky looked like it had been scarred. Just the tiniest scar, oozing black in the middle. Barely noticeable.

"Fascinating," Voldemort said, again, before his head tilted the other way. "Your mindscape had no cracks last time I was here. There was one on the door too, I imagine that acted as a weak point for you to break through." Voldemort looked back to the sky. "I would recommend making a concentrated effort to wake up." For all the advice, the bastard appeared shockingly content.

Or maybe the harsh lines of his figure just seemed ridiculous in the brightness of the dream.

"Why should I?" Harry asked. "Being awake isn't much fun." Even if there was something weird going on here, and Harry wasn't sure there was, regaining full consciousness had a chance of being worse.

Harry didn't want to wake up in darkness again. He'd just got out! Even if it was in a dream.

The splinter was the same as the one on the Diadem.

Voldemort studied him, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Because maybe otherwise you won't."

* * *

The world spilled with light, blinding bright light that stabbed needles against Harry's eyes.

It took him a long moment to realize that he wasn't in the box, but stretched out. It felt like the floor. Gleaming dark wood and soft rugs, nothing like the beige blandness of Number 4 Privet Drive.

Harry squinted, cracking an eye open to see another lovely room about him - similar to 'his', but not the same.

Voldemort loomed standing over him.

Harry's hand shot to his pocket, able to still feel the weight of the delicate tiara. Then he scrambled to get up onto his feet, trying not to feel overwhelmed by the sudden rush of sensations. Noise and light and scent and so many things that had seemed forgotten and alien in the world of the box.

The Dark Lord loomed even when Harry had drawn himself to full height, hand by his side again.

The lights dimmed a little, to something soft and intimate. Candlelight. Easier on his eyes, but it made his insides lurch.

Harry swallowed, but managed to open his eyes enough to glare.  
Voldemort grabbed his chin, ignoring him as he studied his scar.

Warmth left Harry's cramped, stiff joints like water. It was infuriating.

"Fascinating?" Harry asked, scowling, before the dark wizard could comment.

The fingers tightened.

"You are out by mercy. My mercy can wane," came the response.

Harry squashed an instinctive shudder, as pain flared through him.

In the soft light, Voldemort and the room half cast in shadow, everything felt strange. Surreal. A bit like a dream too, though unfortunately it wasn't.

Voldemort's fingers slid down, closing around his throat with a sibilant incantation. When they peeled back, a band rested snug around Harry's neck.

His hand shot up to feel it out, eyes widening, only for his fingers to simply touch warm skin. Nothing. He could touch nothing - but he could still feel it. Like a shackle. "What did you do?" his heartbeat quickened.

Voldemort turned away, dismissively. "Merely some safety precautions, do not waste your energy contemplating it. Clean up in the bathroom and make yourself presentable."

Harry blinked and tried to squash down his foreboding too.

* * *

Harry spent most of his bath trying to think - once he'd secured the door as best as he could. Realistically, it would do nothing to block a determined Dark Lord, but it at least gave some illusion of safety.

He felt torn between hiding there for as long as possible (no way out, he checked) and cleaning up as quickly as possible because he felt utterly exposed.

The warm water soothed his muscles, a wonderful heat compared to the slight chilliness of the box.

He wondered if it was worth trying to drown himself. He did try, but after three seconds under water the force around his throat tugged, yanking him up to raw lungfuls of air.

Safety precautions. Bastard.

Harry's insides knotted, knees drawn protectively to his chest.

In the box, he'd had all sorts of plans for the second he got out, but now everything seemed drained. The world was big and complicated, and the sight of Voldemort froze him to the bone.

Finally, pink and steaming and wrapped up in an absurdly fluffy towel, he got dressed in his old clothes before leaving the bathroom. His shoulders tensed in preparation for battle.

Voldemort sipped tea with a book and a plate of sandwiches, and a bowl of broth.

"Put on those," the Dark Lord ordered, gaze trained on his reading, with a flick of his hand to the bed visible in the other room. An expensive looking set of robes were laid out on the duvet. "Then eat."

Harry wetted his lips. He had a plan. _He'd had a plan_. "How long was I in there?" he asked.

Voldemort didn't respond, continuing to sip his tea and read.

Harry's jaw clenched, eyes narrowing. The outright refusal to even look at him - after all the fuss about making sure he was a prisoner - itched in Harry's palm. **"How long was I in there?"**

The parseltongue made Voldemort look up. It was easy to talk in, there was something serpentine about Voldemort after all. Triumph flashed through him, a petty victory.

**"Get dressed and eat. Now."**

Harry considered if this was something he wanted to start a fight over, but the clothes were hardly pleasant after all the time in the box. Ragged dress robes that had once been nice. But he didn't want to wear anything Voldemort picked out for him. "**I will when you answer my question**," he tried.

**"Would you prefer cold soup and walking around naked?**" Voldemort raised a brow, and his wand.

Harry took the clothes to the bathroom and got dressed, face burning.

* * *

The broth settled too warm and too much in his stomach. Harry sat opposite Voldemort, shoulders rigid and body hunched in protectively, watching the Dark Lord as he ate.

"Eat more. You are too thin," Voldemort said - and since Harry had spoken parseltongue, the dark wizard's attention hadn't shifted from him.

He'd never expected the Dark Lord to be so bloody passive aggressive. It was unnerving.

Harry's stomach revolted at the thought of more solid food.

"Is not answering any of my questions your form of torture when you can't kill me?" Harry snapped. "Or are you just getting old and selectively deaf?"

That time, oddly, he didn't expect the crucio. It hit him full force, with a positively _lazy_ flick of Voldemort's wand. The world seemed to burn up, as he twisted and screamed, able to feel the pleasure humming through whatever link they had.

Harry shuddered, body twitching limp when the curse finally cut. The dark wood floors felt mercifully cool against his cheek.

Voldemort finished his chapter.

* * *

"Why were you in Knockturn Alley?"

Harry stopped, where he'd retreated as far away from Voldemort as he could. By the light outside, it seemed to be early evening. It had been maybe twenty minutes since the _crucio_ ended, and Harry had spent fifteen minutes of the time poking around the room.

Voldemort's room, he was starting to suspect. And honestly, being stuck in Voldemort's room was a horrifying thought.

He'd found no clues about Horcruxes, or much else. All the doors and cabinets were locked. There were a lot of books.

Harry stayed silent to the question, if Voldemort wouldn't answer any of his. What was the man going to do, torture him again? Put him in the box again?

Voldemort's fingers twitched to his wand pocket.

"I'll answer your questions when you answer mine." Harry folded his arms.

"Ten days."

_Ten days?_ It had felt much longer. But that was nearly two weeks - his friends had to have been worried. He wondered what they thought had happened. He bit his lip, turning away from Voldemort's stare.

"What are you going to do with me?"

No answer. Again, no answer. He wondered if that meant Voldemort didn't know yet, but…

"...I was looking for something," he lied, in regards to Knockturn Alley.

A stinging hex caught his side, and he hissed, turning again. "Why were you in Knockturn Alley?" No change in intonation whatsoever.

Harry stared at the bastard in disbelief, skin scrawling. He rubbed his ribs, trying to think.  
"You tell me, you obviously have an answer you're looking for."

Voldemort's eyes flashed with a peculiar glee as he raised his wand again and Harry's hands shot up in a wait gesture before he could stop himself - certain that it hadn't been another stinging hex on Voldemort's mind.

The Dark Lord's head tilted, a smile spreading over his face. "Yes, Harry?" sweet. Too sweet.

Harry exhaled a breath. Could Voldemort tell if he lied? Of course, Snape had told him a Master Legilimens could have a sense of that, but…fuck. "I don't know. It was an accident. I was in the Room of Requirement at Hogwarts."

Tom Riddle would probably know it.

Something flickered in Voldemort's expression, certainly. Then his smile sharpened, as he delicately set down his second cup of tea.

**"Lord Voldemort will make you perfect."**

* * *

_A/N: Woo, part 2. Thank you so much for all of the encouraging reviews, they are wonderful! I adore feedback. I hope you enjoy part 2, and that it lives up to your hopes. Onwards, I guess. (PS: To those who have asked, yeah, this is slash. Just slow burn, cause that's how I roll.)_


	14. Chapter 14

Harry Potter was more of a conundrum than he had any right to be.

Voldemort watched the shock filter across the boy's face, the confusion, the hate, the fear...drank up all of with the same greedy curiosity as he had when the boy was trapped in the box for his scrutiny.

He rose to his feet, stepping towards Potter again.

He wanted the brat to _suffer_. Wanted to watch him break and scream and beg for a mercy that would never come - punish him for all of the times he'd dared thwart Lord Voldemort plans, condemn him for forcing those thirteen years wandering powerless, destroy him and with it the opportunity of defeat.

He wanted to kill him, but could not. Not without weakening himself.

He wanted to _protect_ him.

Just looking at Potter, thinking about what had been done to the child - the vessel of his soul - by hands other than his own made rage crawl through his veins. It seemed wrong that anything containing a part of him could ever look so disgustingly innocent, he wanted to taint that too, but…

He wanted to possess him. To clutch that for himself, and leech away the blissful warmth that filled him sometimes upon their contact.

Obviously, he needed to find a way of removing his soul from Potter without destroying it. Then he could finally be rid of the brat, and the maddening feelings of coldness and disatisfaction that would creep upon him now in the absence of that completeness. But until then...

Until such a time as he could destroy him, he would perfect him. Use the boy as the tool he was. Figure out the effects of the Horcrux bleeding in the boy's mind too - an academic fascination, certainly.

Potter blinked up at him as he approached, practically vibrating on the spot. Torn between instincts of fight and flight. Tongue slipping out to wet dry, pink lips.

_He wanted._

"Perfect?" the boy's voice seemed a little raspy, even as his chin tipped up in defiance unflinching. "Sounds ominous. What's that supposed mean?"

"What do _you_ think I will do with you?" whatever the answer, it would undoubtedly reveal a lot about his young nemesis.

Potter's tongue darted out again, whether he was aware of it or not. Green eyes widened, overspilling with too many emotions and thoughts.

It would be so easy to reach out, and pluck at the messy strings of his unordered thoughts and unravel them.

The boy said nothing, obviously trying to measure his words. Breath hitched somewhere in his tanned throat.

Voldemort reached out, fingers brushing a bobbing adam's apple, able to feel his own protective charms buzzing against the fragile skin. It would be so easy for him, crude. He could tear the child's jugular straight out as he stared at Voldemort like he was the monster under his bed that never quite went away as the years slipped past.

The warmth surged up in his chest, perfect and inviting and complete - and with it, the sickening reminder that his soul would die without its unwitting vessel.

He dropped his hand in disgust and recoiled.

When desire burned as hot as rage, it was no wonder passion could so often be conflated with violence. He turned away from the boy, a door appearing with the flick of his hand. "Come along, my treasure."

Potter released a loud, shaky breath.

* * *

Harry's insides jumped, fingers flexing at his sides. Not entirely sure what had just happened there, or what the look in Voldemort's eyes had been. "Where are we going?" he asked, nonetheless taking a few steps after the Dark Lord, eager to escape Voldemort's room at least.

There was only one bed in there, for one. The thought of sharing with Voldemort, or even having Voldemort physically watch him sleep, seemed both unbearable and bizarre. It was like daring to sleep in a viper pit.

"I have a gift for you," Voldemort said. "Generous lord that I am…"

Well, that was a change of mood, wasn't it? Harry's eyes narrowed as he considered the Slytherin Heir. Trying to make sense of the whole situation. From whispered promises, to threat, to boxes and pain to gifts...Voldemort was mad. He'd never been so sure of it.

Still, he'd had a plan, before he got caught. It only made sense to make the best of it now.

Harry hurried to catch up, not about to walk two steps behind the Dark Lord like something lesser. "A gift?" He really wasn't sure he would like Voldemort's idea of a gift regardless. "What kind of gift?"

"A homecoming gift, my treasure."

"This isn't my home!" the words blurted out before Harry could stop himself, everything inside him revolting at the thought. His fists clenched at his sides.

Voldemort ignored him.

They descended down light, empty corners that seemed more elegant than Harry had ever imagined a Dark Lord's lair being. His anticipation for whatever Voldemort had planned only grew, swelling grotesque and knotting in his belly.

Really, he had no idea what to expect from Voldemort anymore. He actually missed the days when the bastard simply tried to murder him.

He studied his surroundings, looking for locks or any clues as to his location or the location of the remaining horcruxes.

The tiara - _Diadem_, wasn't that what Voldemort had called it in his thoughts? - weighed down the pockets of the expensive robes. The only mercy was that they floated as shadowy and weightless and Voldemort's, hiding the Horcrux.

How could Voldemort not be aware of it? Or did he just not care that Voldemort had it? And what were the chances Voldemort had another basilisk fang laying around?

They reached a heavy iron door, which swung open with a flick of Voldemort's hand.

Harry's heart stopped as he peered into the gloom behind it, at the cellar steps leading down the rest of the way. Was this going to be his new room? Better than the box, but not by much.

Harry's feet rooted to the spot.

Someone whimpered in the darkness.

Harry's mind flashed to Ron, to Hermione, to any of his friends that Voldemort might have imprisoned and hurt, and nausea rolled in his stomach, and his knees felt about to give and -

A ball of light issued from Voldemort's wand, illuminating the grimy and terrified faces of the Dursleys.

He imagined Voldemort screaming on the floor, twisting in pain beneath Harry's wand. His mouth drained dry.

The Dursleys were staring at them both in horror, mouths moving, but Harry couldn't hear a word. His ears buzzed. They looked like they might be pleading. Had Voldemort silenced them?

He glanced at Voldemort again, only to see his mouth moving without sound too.

He felt oddly faint, had he been cursed? He shook his head, trying to clear it. Trying to remember how to breathe.

This wasn't a dream. It was better when it was all a dream.

"If you want me to torture them, I need my wand." Maybe if he had that, he could make his escape too. It was only when his voice sounded too loud, splintering the silence, that everything else filtered back too.

The sound of breathing, the drip of plumping somewhere in the shadowy corners of the room.

Aunt Petunia trembling trying desperately to shield her son from the Dark Lord standing before her.

"-For our kind." Maybe Voldemort really had been talking to him the whole time. He still hadn't heard a word.

He felt like he was floating away, somewhere far away from the whole mess. But he couldn't do that.

His heart leapt as his wand appeared too, from the depths of Voldemort's robes. If he had it on him always, maybe if Harry got close enough, he could later steal it? But how would he get that close without arousing the Dark Lord's suspicion?

The holly hummed reassuringly in his hand.

"I thought you were punishing me for not accepting your first offer." He hadn't surrendered, after all, he'd been kidnapped. That was why Voldemort had put him in the box in the first place, wasn't it? An eternity of torment, for making the Dark Lord chase him, for defying him.

This didn't seem like Voldemort's idea of punishment - at least not punishing Harry - if earlier conversations were to be judged by.

Did Voldemort even know what he planned to do with Harry? What he wanted from him? Or was that he asked Harry and hoped he would tell him?

Voldemort probably wanted to kill him, but couldn't now.

"Please," Aunt Petunia's eyes looked wild. "I know we never looked after you like we should have-"

Harry flicked a silencing charm before he'd thought of it, unable to bear listening to that. Not now. Everything sounded too loud.

He felt hyper-aware of Voldemort's presence next to him. The not quite human chill of him that sunk down Harry's spine.

"Nobody leaves a trophy hidden in a case forever." Voldemort's voice was light, soft - the gleam in eyes mocking and cruel.

Harry flinched at the words, despite himself. Jaw clenching. "Can't I just crucio you again?" he spat. "I think, as always, I'd prefer that gift."

Voldemort, to his surprise, didn't laugh. Head tilting as he examined Harry with an unfathomable expression.  
"Why am I more worthy of your hate then they are?"

Harry spluttered - absently taking note of the lack of third person pronouns for once. Not quite sure what to make any of this. "You killed my parents."

"You never knew them. They chose to play soldiers in a war and stand against Lord Voldemort, I was hardly there for your parents."

No, he'd been there for Harry. His insides twisted. He jerked his gaze away, staring down at his shiny new shoes, feeling sick.

"Or perhaps you believe you deserved what was done to you." Voldemort's voice, impossibly, seemed softer than ever.

It slipped beneath Harry's skin like a knife. Maybe he'd been wrong to assume this wasn't meant as punishment.

"Perhaps you even enjoyed it," Voldemort continued. "Perhaps-"

"**Shut up**." Harry's eyes blazed, wand slashing out. Rage white hot like an iron brand stamped into his veins. "I did not enjoy it!"

Voldemort sidestepped his crucio with a breath-taking ease. "**You are _pathetic_. How could a boy like you ever think nor claim you could defeat Lord Voldemort? Your name has no right to be entwined in history or prophecy with mine**."

Their eyes met. Voldemort seemed truly angry, Harry could feel it throbbing with his own fury. Saturating the air between them. Harry's breath stole from his throat as Voldemort continued:

"**You cower behind the strength of better and stronger wizards, unable to even raise a wand to defend yourself or take vengeance against _pigs_ who would-**"

_**"I DIDN'T ASK YOU TO PUT YOUR FILTHY SOUL INSIDE MY HEAD!**_"

Everything froze.

The colour drained from Harry's face as he realized what he'd said. Voldemort's face just drained blank, eyes glittering.

Pain exploded in his scar. Harry forgot all about the Dursleys quivering in the corner. He couldn't look away, as Voldemort seemed to draw even taller. Magic suffocating, spreading almost visceral and clogging into every inch of the room and every crevice of Harry's body.

He pointed his wand, fingers white-knuckled around his wand. Body tensed to brace for a crucio. Mind returning to the box, certain that he would never be let out of it this time. It couldn't happen, it absolutely couldn't happen.

His every instinct screamed at him to run. To keep running, and never stop running and never look back.

"Filthy?" Voldemort's voice didn't raise above a whisper.

The hair on the back of Harry's neck stood on end.

He lunged forwards and prayed for warmth.

* * *

_**A/N: I did say slow burn. But on less of a joke, I really hope Voldemort came across as genuinely or at least suitably terrifying.**_


	15. Chapter 15

Harry squeezed his eyes shut as he collided with Voldemort's chest.

He wasn't sure if the sharp intake of breath he heard was his own or not - everything hurt, agony throbbing through his skull and his heart felt about to burst out of his chest.

He clutched on, knees weak, hoping to keep Voldemort's arms and wand pinned at his sides long enough that he would rethink removing Harry's hands and feet.

Horcrux or not, the Dark Lord only needed him _alive. _Alive and not necessarily well. And how was he supposed to find let alone destroy seven Horcruxes with no hands or feet?

He seized Voldemort's wand hand, wrestling with him. Both holly and yew clattered away useless along the floor, disappearing into the gloom of the cellar.

"_**Get off me, Potter!" **_

The world seemed stripped away, falling away, just like it had in Voldemort's dream all that time ago.

Magic roared in Harry's ears, nipped and clawed at his skin.

And then the world around them vanished.

It was like the Ministry all over again, memories tearing through his brain and seeping through all the cracks and splinters of connection between them.

Uncle Vernon charging him like an angry bull...a small boy cold and hungry, punished for freakishness during one of the worst winters London had seen...Aunt Petunia dyeing his school uniform grey in the sink, and the overwhelming despair that this was all that life would ever be….a rush of power, as the rabbit floated into the air towards the rafters again above his-above _Voldemort's _head, squirming suffocating as its delicate neck snapped...and…

The rabbit was the first time Voldemort actively chose to use his powers against those who hurt him. To ensure they would never dare to do it again.

Harry staggered back, knees buckling as he hit the floor. He heaved ragged breaths and clutched his head, trying to stitch reality back together.

The winters of Voldemort's childhood seemed colder than anything Harry had ever felt.

He was vaguely aware of Voldemort stumbling and falling to his knees too - and in other circumstances the image may have been a cause for vindictive satisfaction.

Harry swallowed, staring at the damp cellar floor. Chill seeped through his palms, as the lovely feeling of complete and perfect _rightness _faded. "Just because hurting people set you free, doesn't mean it would work the same for me," he said, quietly. "Though I suppose I should say thanks for the gesture."

It seemed Voldemort, in his own twisted way, had been attempting to offer some genuine form of gift in this. And Harry had been utterly blind to it. In all fairness, how could he ever have expected Voldemort to be anything other than cruel to him? He hadn't thought the Dark Lord capable of anything else.

"You are weak." Somehow, the disgust in Voldemort's stung worse with the lingering feeling of rightness warming up his insides. "How is it you can stand against Lord Voldemort, but cannot bring yourself to stomp down on a cockroach?"

Harry shoved himself to his feet, itching for his wand. "Probably for the same reason you view a family member's cruelty as more worthy of your hate than an enemy's actions. Family aren't supposed to hurt you, and you're not supposed to hurt them. That's for Dark Lords and nemesis's, isn't it?"

Voldemort genuinely believed he should hate the Dursleys more - as if hate between enemies was natural and less, compared to the hate of those who should love above all else. Maybe it was just the betrayal of it that the Dark Lord couldn't stand.

Enemies were supposed to be fought, it wasn't always easy but it seemed more natural than turning his wand on the Dursleys.

Something strange, inscrutable, crossed Voldemort's expression. The deadly magic in the room scaled back by inches, until the hairs on the back of Harry's neck no longer stood on edge.

But then, if pain was for enemies prophecied or not, what was meant for Horcruxes aside from immortality?

The urge to bolt out the door rose in Harry's chest again.

Maybe neither of them really knew.

Voldemort didn't seem to.

Voldemort summoned both of their wands with a barely perceptible twitch of his pale hand, tucking them back into the depths of his pocket.

The air seemed filled with a dead-weight, a smothering sort of stasis in comparison to the explosion from before - with so sudden a shift, Harry wasn't sure which was better. He could barely breathe.

"How tainted, you must feel," Voldemort murmured, gliding forwards. "To have something as filthy as me in your head." The Dark Lord reached out towards his scar, before stopping, not quite making contact.

This close, Harry's throat tightened to see something suspiciously like fear flickering in scarlet eyes. Just for a second. Fear and wonder and hate and too many things.

Harry's shoulders tensed, not sure what Voldemort searched for in his expression. But the Dark Lord couldn't seem to bring himself to touch again.

A thrill of power rushed through him. Maybe Voldemort had his Death Eaters, his wand, had Harry has his prisoner even - but Harry had Voldemort's soul, not the other way round.

"You really don't know what to do with something you can't kill, do you?" he dared, equally soft.

Voldemort's fist clenched, nails digging into his palm. Just for a few seconds, seemingly unconsciously.

Harry's heart stuttered when he recognized the reflex as his own.

"I can still hurt you," Voldemort said. "You won't be able to do anything...foolish." Pale fingers skimmed over the invisible band of magic around Harry's neck instead.

"You told me it's an intensely masochistic act to hurt something connected so strongly to yourself."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed.

"Although," Harry said. "I suppose you did mutilate your own soul and start a campaign against halfbloods and muggleborns. Maybe you are a masochist. Is that why it bothers you so much when I call you filthy? Because you're a filthy half blood just like me?"

Harry had always flinched away from the similarities between himself and Tom Riddle, had wanted to flinch away from the Horcrux too, but right now he felt giddy. Stupidly untouchable.

Voldemort didn't have the slightest clue what to do with something that he couldn't kill. Even now, when he'd seen the bloodshed the Dark Lord was capable of, one touch had him spinning through his own worst memories.

Maybe Voldemort had all the power in their dreams too, considering his skill in Occlumency, but right now?

The Dark Lord practically trembled with rage.

Harry could feel it clawing at the corners of his mind, like fingers itching to tighten on his throat.

"My soul is leaking into yours, Potter. It was before, and now it is only bleeding into you more. Your mindscape is splintering. Next time I offer you the chance to hurt those who hurt you, I imagine you'll find they deserve it too."

* * *

The fire crackled between them, muted by the thick walls of protective charms surrounding their encampment.

Hermione wished she'd had more time to prepare, for all of this.

Ron scowled into the flames, prodding the last remnants of their meagre dinner.

They'd been searching for the Horcruxes for almost two weeks now, with no luck and no word from Harry in any of that time. The presence of Death Eaters hunting them suggested Harry had gone to Voldemort, but she couldn't be sure of much beyond that.

Had he been kidnapped? Had he gone _willingly? _  
The second possibility burned in her stomach.

"So, Ravenclaw's missing tiara and some kind of locket?" Ron muttered, for the fifth time that day.

There wasn't much to do except research their Horcrux theories, avoiding death eaters and struggling to find food.

Still, she would imagine whatever the hardships of camping it was better than what Harry was facing.

"It's a Diadem, Ron."

"Same thing. What's a Dark Lord want with that much jewelry anyway? Pompous git."

Her conclusion that they were, absurdly enough, trying to find Ravenclaw's lost Diadem had come on the seventh day, once the initial panic of action had faded and she had time to do some reading.

Given Harry's description of the the Horcrux, and his comment that Voldemort would probably only want to house his soul in something that he viewed as somehow grand or important, it had been a matter of researching any significant magical or historical diadem's in the world.

Ravenclaw's missing Diadem matched his description.

Of course, she might be wrong, and even if she wasn't she had no idea how to begin tracking down a centuries old lost artifact.

"It will be September 1st soon," Ron continued.

"We can't," she said. Her chest ached.

It was all too familiar, strained arguments that circled again and again around the campfire made worse by worry.

Ron's scowl deepened. "Nowhere else we're going to start tracking down a Hogwarts artifact, is there?"

_But Hogwarts wasn't safe anymore._

* * *

Harry didn't see Voldemort for three days after that comment. At first, he felt rather smug that he'd so obviously hit a nerve, now...well, now it would have been rather more convenient if he'd managed to keep his mouth shut.

He had access to 'his' room, and to what seemed to be his own private garden. Beautifully cultivated, and really quite enormous by all standards, but isolated.

Food and drink appeared at regular intervals.

Really, compared to the box and the possibility of an eternity of torment, it was quite nice. The shelves were lined with all sorts of books - none of them useful on the topic of Horcruxes - from vast histories to what seemed to be a book of wizarding children's fairytales.

Harry dreaded the thought that this was the rest of his life.

Voldemort immortal and hellbent on destroying him, doing Merlin-knew what in his absence, while Harry was stuck here with no chance of advancing his plans.

How could he locate the Horcruxes when he couldn't even leave the room?

Voldemort seemed to be actively trying to block Harry from his mind again too - though he still got flashes. Rage, mostly. Hate, always.

Something had to be done.

How could he begin to earn Voldemort's trust enough to get close to the other Horcruxes, if he never even talked to the bastard?

That comment about the Horcrux bleeding into his mind didn't exactly help either. The sleep-walking had escalated to an every night occurrence - and the only time he felt settled enough to sleep in the first place was when the Diadem was tucked close by.

It was bloody unnerving how soothing the damn tiara was. Nothing about Voldemort should be soothing in any aspect!

What if there was a time he didn't even want to destroy the Horcruxes anymore at all?

_Something had to be done, _and he wasn't sure how much time he had left.

On the morning of the fourth day, Harry opened his eyes to see Voldemort standing at the end of the bed.

He froze, any lingering sleepiness vanishing - hyper-aware of the way he was lazily stretched out on the bed, in no position for a fight at all.

He scrambled to sit up, heartbeat quickening. Blood rushed to his face. "How long have you been standing there?"

His scar prickled.

"Get dressed," Voldemort said.

"Were you watching me _sleep?" _Harry demanded.

Voldemort drew his wand up in response, and Harry huffed, raising his hands in a placating gesture. He slid out of bed, doing his best to ignore the way scarlet eyes followed his every movement.

His mouth felt rather dry. "Are you planning to tell me where we're going?"

"I did promise you a stroll around the gardens," Voldemort said.

"I already walked around the gardens." He cursed the automatic response at the way Voldemort stilled - plan. _Remember the plan. _"That - I mean - er - thanks. I would er...it's a nice garden."

Voldemort blinked at him as if he was the insane one.

"I'm going to get dressed then."

Harry hurried into the bathroom, heat spreading up the back of his neck. Right, he could do this. Voldemort wouldn't be expecting to have had a complete personality shift, would he?

Maybe he did, considering his Horcrux comment.

"You forgot to take your clothes with you, Potter," Voldemort called. Somehow, the dark wizard's amusement seemed crueler than his active taunts.

Harry's jaw clenched. He marched back out, avoiding looking at the git as he grabbed some clothes out of the wardrobe and slammed the bathroom door shut again.

He rubbed his scar, frowning. While it had been prickling on and off for days, Voldemort's presence seem to explode pain in his head anywhere near as much as it used to. He doubted Voldemort planned that, the dark wizard would probably love the thought that his mere presence was agony to Harry.

Then again, apparently they now did strolls around the gardens.

He exhaled a breath, squaring his shoulders before leaving the bathroom again.

Voldemort had already moved to the large french doors, silhouetted by the sunshine spilling into the room.

Harry's stomach clenched. He approached slowly, like one might approach a live grenade. "...bad week?" he tried.

Voldemort ignored him, merely stepping out and leaving Harry to keep up with his strides.

The grass crunched damp with dew beneath his feet, the air crisp with the aftermath of rain. "It looks like it's going to a nice day," Harry said next.

That got him a glance. Voldemort's expression didn't particularly change, but the wave of disdain that pierced his brain was more cutting than it had any right to be. He had no idea if the bastard did it deliberately or not.

Harry scowled and looked away. More silence it was then!

Okay, he knew infiltrating Voldemort wasn't going to be easy - in no vision or memory had the dark wizard ever seemed particularly close or intimate with anyone. Still. At least Tom Riddle was supposed to be charming!

His mind drifted back to the diadem. He hadn't heard Riddle's voice in his ears since that one time in the Room of Requirement, and the Diadem hadn't done anything since to suggest it harboured the soul of an evil, genocidal maniac. Or any consciousness at all.

"Have you come across anymore splinters within your mindscape?" Voldemort said, eventually.

"You mean you're actually asking and not just intruding into my sleep?"

"As you took great care to point out," Voldemort's tone chilled. "I am not in a position to kill you. Yet. And you are too much of a liability to be left entirely to your own devices."

So Voldemort had decided to attempt civility instead.

Harry snorted. "No," he said, after a moment. "No more splinters, sorry to disappoint."  
Plan. Stick to the plan. Obviously, small talk about the weather or anything else was never going to be enough, he needed more. "I heard it talking though, once."

"It's conscious?" Voldemort's tone betrayed nothing.

Harry glanced over - noting that Voldemort's attention had fixed on him again. Unblinking, like a crocodile. The hairs on the back of Harry's neck rose once more. He weighed his options, and how much he wanted to say without revealing too much.

Voldemort probably knew far more about everything than he was saying. Harry would lose if he had nothing to contribute, nothing to coax the bastard with in turn.

"Worried what it could be telling me about you?" Harry raised his brows.

"It hardly matters what it tells you, if it tells you anything," Voldemort said. "I'm merely curious. There are no records of living creatures being used as Horcruxes."

It wasn't that Voldemort's eyes were _empty, _per say, rather that Voldemort looked at Harry like he may as well have been. Like he was less a person and more an academic curiosity - utterly at odds with that other look he'd seen in Voldemort's gaze, when he declared his intentions to 'make him perfect.'

Harry resisted the stupid urge to shiver, fists clenching. He jutted his chin up, pausing by the large water feature. "It told me that you're never satisfied. That you always want something."

The emptiness vanished, replaced by that mocking flicker of amusement. "Did it? Is that not the essence of human nature? To covet?" Voldemort's voice slid softer, more sibilant. "To..._desire?_"

Harry swallowed, clearing his throat. "I wouldn't know."

"Are you not human?" Voldemort's eyes gleamed.

Harry glared back at him, getting the rather distinct feeling of a cat lazily batting around mouse more out of boredom than hunger. "I don't think it meant it like human nature."

"What do you want, Harry?"

"We're not having this conversation."

"And yet you are the one who brought up the topic," Voldemort continued walking. Rather, he had a particular illusion of seeming to glide. "Fascinating."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "My scar starts bleeding and I sleepwalk. I've been doing it for weeks. The human soul isn't supposed to be split, _Tom." _

There was no warning.

One second, he stared at Voldemort's back, the next second the wind was knocked out of his lungs and he writhed on the floor, screaming under the cruciatus. He clutched at his head, clawing at his hair - anything to try and alleviate the sensation of white hot hooks scratching at his nerve endings.

The curse ended as quickly as it came.

"Do not ever use that name around me again." Voldemort's voice stayed calm, unaffected. He didn't _look _calm.

Harry sucked in raw lungfuls of air, shuddering.

Voldemort's fingers curled into his hair, tugging him back up to his feet. "Of course," the dark wizard continued as if there had been no pause. "Lord Voldemort has no use for limitations. What is supposed to be is only a limitation men use as an excuse not to strive for more."

Harry's ears buzzed. The urge to vomit burned in his throat.

Voldemort's arm wrapped around his waist, icy to touch and yet flicking that strange warmth inside Harry's blood again, leading him along to continue the stroll.

Was it just him, or was it happening more and more often?

"There have been studies suggesting that accidental magic is a form of pure want transformed into magical energy," Voldemort murmured. "As you are aware from your studies, the will of the caster is integral to the successful completion of any spell, but most people once they receive formal training appear to lose their ability to the same wordless, wandless magic that came naturally to them when they were children. Interesting, no?

Various critics have given different explanations for this phenomenon in order to account for the way 'want' acts in regards to magical theory and magical development. Maximilian Carter argued that there is something unique to the child's mind in its unformed state that gives it greater capacities to magic than-"

Harry let Voldemort's voice wash in and out of his ears.


	16. Chapter 16

Harry dreamed in fragments of silver and sapphire. A prison of darkness, of nothingness.

The world seemed distant and far-away. He could hear snatches - too indistinct and muffled to be recognizable, to be helpful. Just enough for him to strain towards it, for some connection to the world that wasn't Voldemort.

The darkness grew. Smothering, crushing darkness.

He couldn't move. There were no restraints, but whatever he did, his body didn't want to co-operate with him. He couldn't even feel his arms, his legs. Only the desperate pounding of his heart. His ragged breath, closeted and claustrophobic.

Was he back in the box again?

The fear choked him.

And then there was light.

* * *

Voldemort stared down at the thrashing body in the sheets. Sweat-plastered hair, muscles corded tight, the scar on the boy's forehead burning a vivid angry red.

Screaming, howling, _calling for him. _

Potter was having a nightmare.

Of course, Potter had a lot of nightmares, and he had been dragged into a number of them as of late. That dusty cupboard, pounding footsteps…

He had never actually watched Potter dream, awake and from the outside. Was it the cupboard again? Did the boy miss his presence? Was that why he screamed so desperately for help?

Potter's mind reached out out out for anything that might save him from his demons. Clawing at Voldemort's own thoughts, futile snatches at his Occlumency barriers that he wasn't sure the boy was even aware of consciously doing. Like a small bird throwing itself the glass doors of a cage.

Blood seeped from the lightning bolt, and Potter thrashed even harder. Legs tangled up in the bedsheets, bare chest heaving, lips parted.

A familiar diadem nestled on his chest and Voldemort stared at it a while, head tilted. Doing nothing, his heart slamming. The largest sapphire jewel had the exact same splinter crack across its surface as the crack he'd seen in Potter's mindscape.

"Please…" the boy's mouth moved almost soundlessly around the words. Everything about him radiated need. Devastatingly vulnerable, almost...

Harry Potter was not a beautiful boy. By all standards, he was rather average looking. A wiry teenager with untameable hair and slightly knobbly knees, like a fawn that had yet to grow properly into its body.

Yet, he couldn't quite look away either.

Voldemort reached out a curious hand, hesitated, savored the moment, savored the desperate fear and the want saturating the delicate pathways between their minds. Should he? _Could he? _

His breathing quickened. He despised being dragged into the weaknesses of the past, loathed the warmth for the absence it left aching in his chest after contact had been withdrawn, hated the fact that this _brat _could ensnare him so. The only thing special about him was what he, Lord Voldemort, had unknowingly bestowed him with!

His mind flashed back to the cupboard.

Harry Potter was not a beautiful boy, he was not the treasure...but his strange mind, his rich overspilling emotions, his naive power…

"_Voldemort!_" A hoarse cry. Desperate, aching need.

He let himself brush Potter's hair back from his forehead.  
The reaction was immediate, startling, heady.

Potter melted. The tension fled his body as he sagged against the mattress, a soft relieved sigh escaping him. He stopped straining, his mind stopped prickling and craning towards Voldemort's own. The nightmare soothed.

That unnerving warmth, that perfect completeness, erupted in his chest.

How could it be that they, who wanted nothing more than to destroy each other, could do this with a mere touch? Power beyond power, to have his fated nemesis, quivering and pliant under his hand. Trusting him absolutely, unknowingly, complete surrender.

Potter's eyes snapped open - not that poison green though, but scarlet. His own eyes looking back at him not really seeing him at all.

He glanced at the Diadem again, up to the cursed scar, back to the boy' eyes as Potter sat up. Trance-like.

Potter had said he sleepwalked.

It was only the Horcrux, of course, that much had been obvious from the start...but he still could not quite bring himself to stay away. Potter was nothing and still he found himself watching him for hours on end in his little cage of darkness, found himself thinking about the boy constantly, analyzing every sly nuance of his bright eyes for trickery. For the promised power the chosen one was supposed to have, a power beyond his.

No one could have power beyond his own. How could this frightened child, who couldn't even kill those hateful muggles?

Voldemort moved his hand back, the warmth vanishing with it. Potter's expression pinched, troubled, and he watched as Potter's body swayed to follow him like a marionette tugged by invisible threads.

Aching, desperate need.

_The human soul isn't supposed to be split, Tom. _

The warmth spread through him again as Potter's cheek brushed against his fingers, scarlet eyes fluttering closed once more. Willingly touching him, nuzzling into him even.

Not powerful, not quite conscious, not yet.

It wasn't remorse he knew that - the thought was laughable. But even before the possession, they'd been drawn together, hadn't they? Flashes of emotion, visions, the intimate bond between their minds as if Potter was actually worthy of the precious soul he carried, of having such insight into the inner workings of Lord Voldemort.

He didn't deserve it. He thought it was filthy. Potter was the filthy one - mediocre, average, alive by luck more than skill.

So far all of his research into removing a Horcrux from its container had come to the same conclusion again and again and again - if the vessel was destroyed, the soul fragment died with it.

_You really don't know what to do with something you can't kill, do you?_

Potter swayed where he sat, his breathing peaceful now.  
He looked disgustingly harmless, breathtakingly innocent.

His research had failed him. There seemed no conceivable way of removing his precious soul from the boy, without destroying himself in the process. He couldn't take it out, couldn't take it back, couldn't make it perfect in all the ways he'd planned. Instead, it remained stuck to this stupid, infuriating boy.

There was only one option left if he wanted to be rid of Harry Potter forever.

"**Soon," **he crooned, his other hand rising to cup Potter's cheek. Cradling him. "**We can be free of him soon. He can only resist us for so long. Now sleep, my treasure. I'll keep you safe."**

* * *

Harry dreamed in fragments of silver and sapphire. A cocoon of white, of safety.

The world seemed distant and far-away. He could hear snatches - too indistinct and muffled to be recognizable, to disturb him. A soft crooning voice, a sibilant whisper that caressed his senses but he couldn't place the words. Only the promise of them, the want of them, the claim of them.

A pale hand pressed against his chest, guiding him to lie back in the golden light. It was like sinking into a warm bath. Voldemort, the cage, every dark and imprisoning thing seemed unable to touch him.

Tom Riddle looked down at him with a distinct hunger. He looked older than the handsome boy Harry had seen in the diary - same aristocratic features, same glossy dark hair, same long fingers that had once wrapped around his wand now teasing a nail down over his chest. Pausing right on top of Harry's heart.

"We do not have a lot of time," Riddle said. His eyes were not the same, they were the same unholy red as Voldemort's.

Harry swallowed. "You said Voldemort was never satisfied, that he is always looking for something more. More power, more control, more knowledge…"

"Yes. And you know why, you've thought of it before."

"The Horcrux. His soul is incomplete, so he always needs something to fill the gap." Voldemort ached with want, but did the Dark Lord know what he wanted? Or did it just translate as him wanting Harry?

Voldemort had said there had never been a living Horcrux before - and while sometimes Voldemort looked at him like he was merely an object to be coveted, like Harry imagined a Dark Lord would look at his most precious possessions - there were moments when there had been a gleam of something else too.

Voldemort viewed the people around him as tools, means to an end.  
Voldemort had him in his grasp, but he hadn't left him in the box forever. He could have, but he hadn't.

Riddle smiled, it wasn't a particularly nice smile. "**Always wanting more, combined with his nemesis and the literal reminder of what he doesn't have...my, you are in an interesting position aren't you, Harry? You're right, he hardly knows what to do with you now, or what he wants from you. I imagine it's all rather new. But that won't last forever." **

Harry's eyes narrowed. Voldemort had him like he wanted, but he wouldn't be content with that for long.

"**What do _you_ want?" **Harry asked. "Don't even try and say it's to help me." He found English with difficulty, heavy and awkward on his tongue in comparison to the hissing.

The warmth, the happiness, wasn't Harry's. This safety wasn't his, even if it felt like it was. Even if it felt like it could be all he ever wanted from life, even in a dream. The completeness had always been Voldemort's.

It still fogged his brain, still made it difficult to panic, to react.

Riddle glanced away, like he'd heard something, still for a moment. When he looked back, he seemed more intent than ever. Leaning in, hands bracing on either side of Harry's head, their faces inches away as if he was concerned someone might overhear them.

"We're the same, you and I," Riddle said. "We both belong to him."

"I don't," Harry snapped. "I'm not a tiara. I'm still me. I don't belong to anyone but myself!"

"**You do not like cages,"** Riddle said. "**Neither do I." **

Harry followed his gesture up to the the only dark spot in the light, the thin oozing inescapable splinter along his mindscape.

"I'm not letting you out of it," he said. "You already shouldn't be here." As if the world needed another Voldemort running around! As if he needed another Voldemort in his head!

The thought that their souls had bled together enough for Riddle to manifest himself like this already left him cold, even despite the lovely warmth. He needed to stop holding that Diadem so close, however wrong it felt not to have it on his person.

But if he hid it somewhere, Voldemort could find it. Then he'd be making even less progress than he was currently!

"You need to get closer to Voldemort," Riddle whispered, quickly now. "I can help you do that. I can make you..._irresistible..._to him."

"And why would you do that?"

"I don't want to share your head, Harry," Riddle said. "As curious a little thing as you are, I don't like sharing. Currently, neither of us have much choice in the matter."

"You could stay in the Diadem."

"You could stay in a box." Pain throbbed through the perfect, luring warmth. "Your nightmares are my reality, or did you think the Dark Lord would come running for _you_?"

The light had begun to fade too, and Riddle seemed less substantial than before. The sounds of the world seemed more distant than ever.

"So when I find another Horcrux…"

"I could leave your head, yes. Cojoin with it instead. Clever boy." Riddle paused, licked his lips, and traced his fingers up to the lightning bolt scar. "And I could take this with me too. Think about it Harry."

Then he was gone.

**Now, sleep, my treasure. I'll keep you safe. **

Harry slipped away too.

* * *

When he woke up, sun was streaming in through the French door windows.

The...open French door windows. Harry blinked, sitting up, memories of Tom Riddle and deals still drifting disorientated in his head.

_Tom? _He called, very hesitantly. Nothing. He couldn't feel another presence in his head either, but that didn't necessarily mean anything now, did it?

He got dressed and pocketed the Horcrux, heart pounding as he approached the open doors.

He found Voldemort by the water fountain. Had to wonder what was happening with the rest of the world, with the Death Eaters, if Voldemort was spending so much time in Harry's personal prison.

The Dark Lord didn't turn at his approach and Harry came to a stop next to him, studying him, futilely trying to get a read on what sort of day it was going to be.

He seemed peaceful enough, face turned up to the sky, perfectly still. Pleased, even. But Voldemort's peace could be shattered in the space of one heartbeat to a next.

Harry's stomach dropped, mind racing over possible attacks, terrible news, deaths.

"What were you dreaming about?" Voldemort asked.

Did he somehow know? Or had Harry done something while he was sleepwalking, or said something, or…

Harry resisted the urge to wallow, fixing his gaze on a fat bumblebee hovering by some roses.

"Darkness." There didn't seem to be any point lying, only in not telling the truth. "You haven't dreamed in a while. Scared I'll be there if you go to sleep? You're looking rather tired."

Maybe not the comment to make if he wanted a peaceful day.

Surprisingly, Voldemort didn't crucio him for that. He looked over, eyes gleaming in a way that almost made Harry wish he had. He didn't, however, say anything for a long moment. The gleam faded.

"Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger are still at large."

Harry jolted, breath quickening in his throat. Desperately trying to keep his expression under control - it was the first news of the outside world Voldemort had given him in the two weeks he'd been there. Or was it more than that now?

It felt like forever.

He swallowed and looked away, not quite trusting himself in meeting Voldemort's eyes.

"What mission did you give them?" the Dark Lord asked. He still sounded peaceful, conversational even. "Where are they?"

"I don't know," Harry said.

"And the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix?"

Harry looked at him then - because Voldemort had to know he would never willingly give up any of that information, so why was he asking now? He said nothing, uneasy.

For that matter, why _hadn't _Voldemort tortured him for information before now?

Voldemort's head tilted. He had that peculiar, feasting shine to his eyes again, compared to the normal clinical emptiness.

Harry barely stopped himself from flinching as Voldemort raised a hand, brushing pale knuckles along the side of his face.

The warmth pooled inside him just like it always did.

"I'm still not telling you," Harry jutted his chin up.

Horrifyingly, a smile curled along the Dark Lord's mouth before he let his hand drop and turned away. "Have I ever told you that you're exquisite, Harry Potter? Come along..."

He definitely would have preferred the crucio.

* * *

_A/N: Hello, it's me...have you been wondering where I've been? Guess I'm back anyway. Finished my finals and university for ever, exciting and terrifying times. I hope you enjoy the chapter - as always, your feedback is much appreciated and obsessed over ;)_


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